


The World is Winter Cold

by Anzie (anzie)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Do You Want to Build a Snowman?, Everyone thinks Loki wants to take over the world but no he just wants to build a snowman, F/M, Frosthawk - Freeform, Frozen AU, Inspired by Frozen, Loki Needs a Hug, Loki actually needs multiple hugs, M/M, Male Slash, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Odin's A+ Parenting, Odin's A+ everything, Other, Slash, The Author Regrets Nothing, Why is Captain America not an actual tag?, Yes there will be Avengers, eventual frosthawk, eventual frostsomething, eventual slash, other tags coming soon, rating may change for reasons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1506737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anzie/pseuds/Anzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Thor was falling, falling with no wings, his laughter still hanging in the air, his grin still wide on his face as he trusts Loki – </em>trusts Loki<em> – to keep him from hitting the ground.</em></p><p>When Odin brought the little Jötunn child home after the war he never expected that he will have to raise little Loki in fear and lies. After an icy accident with Thor, Loki himself throws the key to his own cage for the path of solitude. But there are only so many lies to weave and walls to build before the threads snap and the brick crumbles for the truth to come pouring free. </p><p>There is no realm where the truth cannot find you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm well aware there's already a [Frosthawk Frozen AU by Little_Miss_Darkling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1331677) because I'm actually following it and I love it. I did start planning my own version of it after I saw Frozen though and I recently had time to write the first few chapters D: I'm sorry, I don't mean to look like I'm stealing someone else's idea... I do love Frosthawk.
> 
> But anyway. First ever Marvel fic. Or rather, second ever because unpublished Bucky Barnes oneshot ayyy. I'm probably going to take a bunch of liberties with Nordic deities in this fic... like throw their names around. Be gentle with me.

The blue-skinned giants of Jötunheimr are dangerous, and the kingdom of Asgard knew just how much so. They have waged wars against those they consider no better than snarling, snapping beasts; sung in triumph songs of victory over the bodies of their dead – no matter that they might be mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters in their own right – and drained mugs of the finest brew they can afford in cheer over the destruction of proclaimed monsters.

So there really is no reason for Odin to bring the child home except that he _is,_ the babe swaddled in the unstained corner of his cloak, large green eyes fixed upon who the child has claimed _father_. Odin wonders, _has the child ever felt the warmth of a parental embrace?_

Laufey truly is a brute to abandon his child in the midst of war.

_Perhaps if we had not brought war to their doorstep he might not have._

Does it fall now to him to raise the child?

The babe yawns but keeps sleepy, watery eyes fixed upon the All-father. Tiny hands – once blue, now a lovely shade of Asgardian pale ( _what a show-off this child naturally is_ , Odin thinks with fondness he can’t fend away) – grasp at Odin’s ice-cold armor but where Thor would fuss over the temperature the babe in Odin’s arms merely sighs as though settled by the chill. Odin smiles and reaches to carefully pry tiny, strong fingers from his armor. “You will hurt yourself,” he tells the babe gently. The tiny creature takes Odin’s hand and pops a finger into his own mouth, wide eyes sliding shut as he begins to suckle.

“All-father,” Hoenir says respectfully from the side. Odin looks over at his chief adviser silently. Hoenir does not question him about the child, doesn’t even give the babe a curious look as he says, “We must go.”

Odin nods once, watches his advisor head off and crosses to his horse. With the child in one arm, he pulls himself up and astride his horse, who turns its head to stare hard at the tiny frost giant in his arms before starting off.

Odin is beginning to wonder what Frigga will say of the child. With her abilities he doesn’t doubt that she already knows. He hopes she approves and will aid him in bringing up the child in Asgard, for there will be many struggles.

In the land of summery beauty there is no place for the cold.

 

In the time after the war Asgard comes to a precarious truce with Jötunheimr. Winter flourishes in the devastated land as best it can with the stolen Casket, and Asgard is alertly relaxed; summer blooms. Neither world turns its back on the other, not with a history of failed treaties paving the way to true peace.

In a show of goodwill Laufey enlists the All-father’s help in the search for his lost son. Odin sends out messengers and puts out rewards to no end. The funeral is held on Jötunheimr, in the icy fields with the mountains overlooking the ceremony. Tears harden on Farbauti’s cheeks. Laufey is made of stone. Odin pays his dues.

Soon after Odin announces to Asgard that Frigga has birthed their dark-haired son, Loki. They proclaim him healthy and brother to Thor. The Asgardians cheer and wonder if Frigga feared for her newborn’s life during the war. The Jötunn smile but wonder where the child came from.

Farbauti takes his life when Loki is five. He is frozen in the same field that his firstborn son’s empty ice-tomb lies.

Laufey rules alone.

Odin pays his dues.


	2. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I felt really bad leaving you guys with like... six hundred words. Especially since some of you were nice enough to leave me lovely kudos. Thank you for giving me the chance~ :3
> 
> Anyway, here's the next chapter. I don't know how often I'll be able to post but I'll try to make it at least once a week. Also if any one of you would like to be my beta I will adore you. 
> 
> Cheers. Enjoy.

Loki gets sick very often as a child, and it’s just as often a cause for his parents to fret worriedly over him. When he was littler he enjoyed the attention, the sweet patient he was, but now he loathes being kept in when there are games with his dear older brother he can play.

He _knows_ it’s because he’s different, _adopted_ – a word Thor can’t seem to quite understand, often thinking that Loki is secretly a wolf that Odin changed into his little brother to be Thor’s companion; Loki lets him think it, Loki is much smarter and understands it means he’s not related to Thor or Odin or Frigga by blood; they have never loved him any less and it’s not an issue – and they think he’s allergic to something in the air, the food, simply because he’s not their son by blood. Loki doesn’t quite know how to tell them it’s because he often uses up his magic in play far too quickly and has to recuperate in bed.

Not that Loki can _tell_ them that he’s been using his ice to make flurries and build snowmen with Thor, not when they constantly tell him to keep his powers a secret. Besides, it’s _only_ with Thor that he plays, anyway.

Thor likes his ice and that makes him stand out from the rest of Thor’s friends. He’s _different,_ a good sort of different that makes him beam proudly when Thor invites him to come along on his adventure plays, not really explaining to his grumpy friends why the cheeky Loki should be allowed to join in (“He’s my brother and I say so!”).

His magic is their little secret.

 

Thor adores Loki as though he is not simply his younger brother but also his pet. Wherever he goes he wants Loki to follow, and Loki doesn’t quite mind when they’re alone though when Sif and Fandral are involved he tended to be shyer despite having known the two for years and years now. Loki still follows, though, sticking close to his older brother’s side and playing damsel when Sif declares herself a worthy warrior (the boys usually play along; it’s all good fun, anyway).

Thor knows Loki is far more content with his nose buried in a book than he is out in the sun, and he suspects that is the real reason why Loki’s skin is almost pure white, like snow – not because he possesses the ability to _make_ it snow.

When Thor first found out about Loki’s ability he was four and Loki was two, and Loki froze his water out of spite when Thor ribbed him for being slow in his race with Fandral and Sif. Frigga had immediately swept Loki up in her arms and carried him out the dining room while Odin led Thor to his private chambers for a stern warning: if Thor ever spoke about Loki’s powers his little brother will be lost to him forever.

The idea of losing Loki festered in Thor’s heart, and every night after that he crept into his brother’s room to make sure Loki still existed in his life.

Frigga often found her eldest son asleep at the foot of his little brother’s bed and silently had servants set up a comfortable place where Thor may rest in Loki’s room. The brothers never questioned it, but Thor seemed more comfortable on the mattress on the floor than he was curled up into a tight ball so he might not accidentally squash Loki.

Thor truly loved Loki.

Loki loved Thor in return.

 

Loki is fast asleep in bed, curled around his pillow as though it’s protecting him from whatever Loki fears at night. (Thor knows what Loki fears most: the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder that follows, it makes him dream things he can never put into words and Loki is the most eloquent child in all of Asgard.) His little brother is truly amazing, Thor reflects proudly as he creeps across neatly kept floors to his brother’s soft bed.

“Brother,” he cajoles softly, shaking the younger boy’s arm gently. Thor’s eyes are alight, already imagining the fun they might share that night. “Brother, wake up.”

Loki cracks an eyelid open, stifles a smile and pulls his covers over his head. _Oh, so he desires to play it like thus…_ Thor giggles and flops on his brother’s form. “Wake _up_ , Loki,” he whines. “I want to _play_.”

“Go back to _sleep_ ,” Loki huffs, his voice muffled by the thick blankets. “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he adds like Thor has ever cared about what he’s _supposed_ to do.

“I _can’t_ sleep.” Thor tugs the sheets down so his brother’s eyes are visible over the top. “The sky’s awake, so I’m awake, so we have to _play_.” At the last word he yanks the sheets down, just as Loki gives him a shove. With a cry of laughter, Thor falls.

“Go play by yourself,” Loki says with a giggle, tucking himself neatly back into place. His little brother snuggles up and goes very still, as though he is already asleep. Thor scowls at the floor, brain working. What will Loki want to do?

It clicks in his head a moment later. A smile spreads across his rosy face.

Loki jerks when Thor sits on him, clearly expecting his older brother to actually leave him alone and try again tomorrow, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but Thor gets there first.

“Do you want to build a snowman?”

 

The ballroom is often their choice venue, being large enough for Loki to turn the room into their snowy playground, being private enough that there is hardly a chance anyone will chance upon their antics. Thor watches his little brother spin around on his tiptoes.

“What do you think a ball is like, brother?” Loki asks in a dreamy sort of voice. Thor suspects that Loki is half asleep still. “It must be wonderful to dance in someone’s arms…” he trails off, his eyes closed.

_Did… did Loki fall asleep on his feet?_

With thinly disguised impatience, Thor nudges his brother, causing him to go a little off balance (and earning himself a look the mixture of hurt and annoyed), “I will dance with you in the snow, brother; do your magic!”

Loki shakes himself out his reverie and focuses on his hands. At first it seemed like nothing would happen, Loki’s hands twisting as though around an invisible snowball; then with a sparkle blue-green light forms in Loki’s childish hands. Shooting an impish look at Thor, Loki throws the light up in the air. The light explodes into tiny flecks of snow that falls gently around them. Thor bursts into delighted laughter and bends to scoop the thickly falling snow into a pile.

“Let us build an army, brother!”

 

It happened far too fast for Loki to take it back, like actions were retrievable, like he can turn back time and stop himself from throwing out his hand, stop the magic from escaping against his will. One minute… one minute Thor was conscious and leaping from one mound of snow to another, laughing uproariously, Loki throwing them up higher and higher at Thor’s request. And another…

Another, Loki had lost his balance, looked up and saw his brother fall from the sky as though he were an angel learning to land. Another, and Thor was falling, falling with no wings, his laughter still hanging in the air, his grin still wide on his face as he trusts Loki – _trusts Loki_ – to keep him from hitting the ground. Another, and Loki had reacted unconsciously, a bolt of icy magic exploding from his hand and striking Thor in the head, sending him flying – thankfully – into a pile of snow from earlier. And now Thor is silent and still, his skin cold even to Loki’s tiny hands and Loki is thankful no longer. There is no more smile on his face as a lock of blond on his brother’s head turns white – white as snow.

Ice creeps along the walls and Loki’s world turns winter cold.

Suddenly he knows what it felt like to be alone.

_“Mother! Father!”_

 

When they fixed him Loki didn’t want to touch his brother, large green eyes filled with tears as he surveyed the damage he’s caused. Thor now sleeps with ease, but that lock of hair remains stubbornly white. Frigga’s hands smoothed over both her son’s heads, dark and light both. She catches her younger son’s eye and smiles softly; Loki’s heart eases just a little. At least she does not hate him.

He tucks his face in her bosom and peeks at his brother. Odin had gone to deal with the matters of a king, but he promised he will be back as soon as he can to check on Thor. He never gave Loki a second look.

Loki wonders if his father hates him now. He wonders if they’ll not make him theirs any longer.

“Mother,” Loki whispers after a while of struggling with his head, “Does Father not love me?”

Frigga’s hand stills on his head, but soon returns to its smoothing. “Your father always loves you, silly child,” she says gently. “How can he not? You are his son.”

“I am adopted.”

At that Frigga pulls back to give him a long, firm look. “Loki,” she says, “You are our son. Your bloodline does not make you any less a child of Odin.”

“Father never looked at me the whole time,” he says sadly.

Frigga pulls her youngest son close to her body, dropping a kiss on his head. “Your father is disappointed, Loki, that is all. Disappointed and extremely worried; he has much to worry about.”

“I am sorry I added to his burden.”

“Do not blame yourself, dear Loki.” Frigga hugs him tighter and he feels her smile in his hair. “We should have kept a better watch on you and your brother… should have stopped you both from sneaking out at night to play.”

Loki sniffles quietly. Thor stirs in the bed but does not waken. Loki turns to look at him anyway, hoping he might.

Not one of them moves until Odin returns, weariness etched on his face. “Frigga,” he says with a weary smile. “How is he?”

“Resting, still,” Frigga says. Loki turns to look at his father, dread in his eyes; Odin strides over to where Thor lays, resting a weathered hand on his forehead as Frigga cuddles a worried Loki. After what feels like forever, Odin turns to gaze at his adopted child with his one eye. Loki chews his bottom lip silently.

“We need to keep you both safe,” Odin says at last. “Both of you…” he trails off, lost in thought.

“Odin,” Frigga whispers. Their gazes connect and Loki looks up at them. His parents spoke without words often, and if Loki concentrated sometimes he can catch snatches of the conversation. It’s instinctive at this point, he can’t help himself when his eyes glaze over to listen and-

_Thor will be affected-_

_We’ll keep it a secret from him-_

_Fear will be his enemy-_

_He has to learn to control it-_

_Conceal-_

_Cut down on staff-_

_Private wing-_

_Just the boys?_

_Just Loki._

“Just Loki,” Frigga echoes, and she’s crying to herself, tears sliding down her cheeks; Asgardian tears, clear and empty and starless. Asgardian tears. A personal grief…

Loki clasps her sleeves worriedly, his eyes large. “Mother?”

(Her sleeves ice over but neither of them notices.)

“We’ll teach you to control it, Loki,” she whispers to him. “We’ll teach you to control your magic.”

“But until then,” Odin says, voice weary, “No one will know about your powers but the both of us. Loki, we will place you in the private wing; you will learn to control yourself there. No one can know about your magic. Keep it a secret… keep it a secret from everyone.”

“Even Thor?” Loki whispers.

Frigga turns her son back to face her, cupping his cheeks with her soft hands. Her eyes are sad when she says, “Even Thor.”

 

Years pass. In Thor’s eyes everyone grows more distant from him as he advances to the age where he might be crowned king of Asgard; Odin speaks with him only as though he is a member of the council (which he is), Frigga urges him to choose a bride (which he isn’t) and Loki… Loki simply slips out of his life as though he never existed (but he does).

Before the accident he had while he was in Vanaheimr (was it Vanaheimr? Or perhaps Jötunheimr? The memories are so old that they have grown fuzzy around the edges; but Thor’s never actually had many memories of his accident) Thor used to fear physically losing his little brother, worried nightly about feral wolves sneaking into the palace to take Loki away but it is now clear to Thor that there are other ways to lose him. Mentally. Spiritually. Psychologically.

In every other way possible.

Thor does not know if he should act grateful to the Gods that Loki is within physical reach.

But perhaps it hurts more when Thor knows his brother is there, but simply not speaking to him (but for clipped sentences when Loki is forced to acknowledge him, knuckles white beneath his pale skin, jaw tight as though it hurts Loki to even _look_ at his brother). It hurts more because it is a choice Loki makes and Thor has no choice but to respect his decision (even if it takes years for him to come to terms with Loki’s resolution, even if he learned to tear down his pride and beg at Loki’s door for him to come out and play, to build a snowmen on another world, to build sandmen on the beach when the first failed to coax his little brother from his self-imposed solitude).

It hurts because it truly is Loki’s voice telling him to go away from the other side of the door, and that is the only thing that keeps Thor from breaking down the door with his newfound strength and demanding of his brother _why_ he keeps himself in the privacy of the old guest wing, _why_ he rarely makes appearances in festivals and even then _why_ would he leave when once he enjoyed the bright lights and delicious food of the feast, sneaking sips of a drunken noble’s wine years before they are allowed? Why? _Why would he abandon me like that?_

 

Loki is eight when he accidentally freezes over with his bare hands the window overlooking the festivities in the palace gardens. He receives the gift of gloves without complaint, Frigga’s worried whisper of, _“Conceal it-”_

_“Don’t feel it.”_

_“Don’t let them know_ , _”_ a mantra Loki has heard so many times in his young life that he can make up songs about the phrase, has created tunes to go with the rhymes he spins in his mind. But the memory of Thor laying lifeless in his tiny arms is fresh and strong in his scarred head and so he pulls them on and prays the too-thin layer of leather is protection enough.

He’s ten when he trips on his way down one of the secondary palace stairs, icing over the walls with the fear that jolts in his heart when he felt for the first time what Thor must have felt as he leaped from the top of the mound; it is to Loki as though time is suspended for the briefest moment, and then he falls too quickly to the ground. Frigga takes care of it with nothing asked, holds her silently weeping son who can no longer touch her with his two bare hands without fearing he will somehow ice over the love and care that Frigga emanates.

He’s thirteen the first time Fandral invites him to dance – dashing, sixteen-year-old Fandral who can have any woman he likes in Asgard as long as Thor does not want them, who wished to dance with him – and he almost ices over the whole ballroom when Fandral holds out his hand with a cocky little smile. Out of the corner of his eye Loki can see Thor’s tense frame, his expression torn between laughter and annoyance and anger; Volstagg’s huge grin; and the tiny shake of Sif’s head as she watches her childhood friend attempt to woo the Prince. Loki refuses, images of Fandral turning to ice in his hands wildly flashing in his mind’s eye, and Loki can just imagine the look on his older brother’s face when he realizes truly the kind of monster his little brother has become. He refuses every single time after, flushed cheeks and shaking hands concealed under a mask of indifference despite the longing to be held by someone he finds attractive, who finds him beautiful.

Fandral would not see him as beautiful when he discovers the truth.

He gives up eventually, and Loki misses his obvious attempts at seduction that were once his only form of entertainment in parties. Loki _knows_ Thor is relieved but for what reasons he can’t pinpoint; perhaps he does not think Loki is good enough for Fandral, or perhaps he does not want his brother and one of his best friends together at all. Fandral seems to move on fairly quickly but Loki finds himself longing for things that have never come to pass.

It is because of it that he loses control at fourteen, his room an explosion of icy cold, Frigga and a rare Odin doing their best to calm their terrified son.

_“It’s getting worse, I don’t know-“_

_“You have to control it,”_ Frigga tells him gently, hands reaching out to touch her son, to do _something_ for him; but Loki jerks back, jerks away with a muffled cry of fear.

_“Don’t touch me! I don’t want to hurt you.”_

Loki doesn’t know what to do, and for once neither do his parents. Odin’s wards can only keep the ice from spreading out his room when Loki loses control, and Loki refuses to let Frigga touch him at all. But she doesn’t stay away, staying by his bedside to sing his childhood favorites and read him bedtime stories when he grows restless.

Loki allows it because it’s the only form of love he’ll let himself receive.

At sixteen he’s composed and proud, giving himself reprieve from the boring stuffiness of his own room to explore palace on his own, to greet and say farewell to the visitors that come in and out of Asgard. When Odin and Frigga leave to visit Freya Loki says his farewell with an elegant bow, his strict upbringing obvious in his sleek appearance with not a hair out of place.

(Thor gives their parents a tight hug, chest puffed out proudly for being named the King Regent and for being placed in charge of Asgard while their parents were gone. He gives Loki a surprised look when he sees his brother in public, as he is wont to do, but says nothing. They always say nothing.)

“Do you have to go?” Loki asks his parents in a quiet undertone; the question is mostly for Frigga, who gives him an understanding smile while Odin merely places a gloved hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll be fine, Loki,” Odin tells him, voice a low rumble. Then they turn their horses to walk into the entrance of the Bifrost. Loki watches them go and, with a heart full of hope at Odin’s words, promises himself that he will work his best to show them that he _can_ be in control of his magic; when they return, Loki will make them proud. _I’ll do it and show them I can._

They never return.

 

Thor’s steps are heavy, echoing oddly in the dark and oppressing silence of the empty hallway; but his heart is heavier though it feels as though it has shriveled with the amount of grief he carries, shriveled as though all the moisture has been released through his eyes in the form of wet tears.

Odin and Frigga – his beloved parents… dead.

It seems impossible to think that two of the most formidable people Thor has ever met – and will ever meet – are the very same whose lives are cut down short. Thor had always thought that Mother and Father would be there for his coronation, always imagined Mother’s beaming face and Father’s usually stern countenance softened with a proud smile. He always comforted himself when doubting his ability to rule with the fact that Mother and Father would never let him go astray.

But now there is no one to keep him on the path and he’s alone.

His feet are taking him someplace he’s rarely visited in recent years: Loki’s room, the door as closed as it had been when Thor woke up from his healing sleep at the age of nine. There’s a noticeable chill in the air and Thor briefly wonders if Loki is even in his room.

The quiet sniffle answers it for him.

Thor stops outside the door, feeling the weight of words and memories bog him down from all the times he’s been here – _“Do you want to build a snowman, brother? It doesn’t_ have _to be a snowman…_ ” “ _Please just come out and play, brother; we used to be so close and now we’re not.” “I miss you.”_ – but he forces himself to raise his fist and knock – _one, two._

“Brother?”

He pauses, waits for a reply even though he knows there will be none. But he waits, nevertheless, because it’s polite, because it’s Loki.

“Please, I know you’re in there.” It’s a good way to start as any, but it there is still no response and Thor is momentarily at a loss. Opens his mouth to say, _Open the door, brother. I understand you, and you understand me,_ but something stops him. He says instead, “People are asking where you’ve been.”

_Where have you been my whole life? Why have you shut me out like this?_

Thor continues, the words spilling meaninglessly out his mouth: “They say… they say ‘have courage’, and I’m trying to. I’m here for you, brother… just let me in.”

 _We only have each other now._ “It’s just you and me.” _What are we going to do?_

He swallows and whispers the words aloud, palm pressed against the cold wooden door, head bowed. “What are we going to do, Loki?” He doesn’t know. His breath catches because he wants what he can’t ever have now, wants the childhood and the happiness, and he wants his mother and father there with them.

The time is gone, but it does not stop Thor from trying.

“Do you want to build a snowman?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not exactly the end of Fandral/Loki... 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I did not expect to get this many kudos, or any comments at all. Thank you so much!

A hooded figure moves silently through the palace garden.

It is so late into the night that not a soul is awake at this time, and even the men standing guard for their late night shift are barely so. The particular guard on duty at the west side of the palace grounds, called Berne, is dozing on his feet. He barely notices the figure, a flicker in the corner of the sleepy man’s eye as it is, but fortunately for Berne he catches a flick of deep green cloth as it flutters after its owner into the shadows once again. A small frown fixes itself on Berne’s face and he glances around. His partner has not noticed, the other recruit snoozing quietly where he stands against the smooth gold wall.

Berne hesitates, flicking a look at where the figure has disappeared _(Frigga’s garden_ , he thinks) before nudging the other guard. “Keep awake. There is a disturbance I would like to investigate.”

“Mm.” The other guard blinks sleepily at him before nodding. “I will remain here,” he says, voice husky with sleep. Berne heads off in the direction of the shadow, and he knows the minute the other recruit falls back to sleep. _I wonder if I should report him._

Frigga’s garden is beautiful as ever; despite her passing, the garden remains in full bloom – no doubt thanks to the various ladies who hold the utmost respect for the late Queen and All-Mother, though credit belongs partially to the younger of the two Princes. Prince Loki has often spent time in the garden, nurturing the plants and speaking to them as his mother often did.

_He has always looked so different from the royal family…_ Pretty, slender and graceful, Prince Loki has often been a common fallback of gossip amongst Asgardians, most of whom shun him simply for his womanly looks. Others simply have no care. _I wonder how he truly came to exist._

But Prince Loki appears to have held up better in the last couple of months than he has in the entirety of the previous year. Berne has much respect for the royal family and so hopes that Prince Loki has finally found it in himself to move on past his parent’s tragic deaths.

_Death in an ocean…_ Who knew that such a formidable pair of leaders would perish in such a way?

Shaking his head quietly to himself, Berne comes to a stop at the bushes surrounding Frigga’s gorgeous garden. A brief scan tells him that there are not one but _two_ hooded figures in the area, one standing below a particularly beautifully flowering tree and the other making swift steps towards the first. Berne has gripped his sword and is about to call out (“Halt, who goes?”) when the second figure reaches up with pale hands and flips his hood down, a somber expression on his face.

Prince Loki.

“I do not have long,” the Prince says in a voice that is both low and unreadable. “What folly have you brought upon yourself now that not even Thor can aid you with, that you must see me in absolute privacy in the dead of the night?”

“Not a folly, I’m afraid, unless a breaking heart is considered one. I needed to see you once more.” Berne recognizes the light, smooth voice that belongs to Fandral, one of the Warriors Three. His hand relaxes a little on the grip of his sword as Fandral says, “You have been avoiding me.”

The line of Prince Loki’s shoulders exude tension. “I did not think you would notice.” Despite the haughty tone of the Prince’s voice, there is an undercurrent of an emotion Berne cannot identify.

“If you speak of-“

“I speak of nothing and no one,” Loki says curtly. “I myself have been far too busy to indulge in the games you and my brother play.” He does not add that this meeting itself is detracting from whatever it is that the Prince does in his rooms, and he does not need to. Fandral’s shoulders seem to droop. “Speak now and tell me what it is you wish of me and I will choose to grant it as I will.”

Fandral studies the younger prince, whose expression is hard as rock and devoid of any emotion, and exhales. With a small bow, he says, “Clearly it will not be granted either way, but I will speak, as your highness commands it. I merely wished permission to visit you more often wherever you may be, to join you in your solitary times, to take you places you might not yet have seen, to speak with you where and when we wished.”

“In other words, you wish to court me, despite knowing my brother’s thoughts and feelings on this matter.” Berne has never heard a person wooed sound so cold.

“Thor will not mind if it means our happiness.”

“Then you wish it, even with the knowledge that I do not desire your company, nor anyone else’s?”

“Yes.” Fandral sounds utterly certain and sincere, his gaze fixed on the younger Prince. “If I may, yes.” And he waits, his expression calm. If he is nervous, he does not show it.

Loki stands silently, shrouded in his cloak. Not even his hands are visible, but from the tension in the Prince’s very frame Berne imagines that they are clenched where none can see. “When I told you…” his breath catches in his throat and takes a moment to compose himself before he forges on, “When I told you before that I have no desire to take a lover or a consort, I meant that you are no exception, Lord Fandral. My answer remains the same.” Loki tips his head to stare the other man in the eye. “Is there anything else you require?”

How Fandral remains so composed is and always will be a mystery to the young guard. “No, my Prince,” he murmurs. He bows at the waist to Loki, his eyes seemingly never leaving the Prince’s face. “Nothing at all.”

In turn, Loki dips his head in acknowledgement. “Very well. You may go,” he says, the regal tone re-entering his voice. Berne has not noticed that it was gone at all.

With another deep bow, Fandral casts a look of what Berne believes is longing at the Prince’s expressionless face before striding away. Prince Loki remains where he is, head turned to the side as though he is trying to watch the warrior leave, but at the same time is preventing himself from fully looking. His expression… it is desolate, not the look of a person who wished no company but rather that of a man in great pain.

Berne shivers in his armor. The air has suddenly grown cold around him, but he will wait until the Prince has returned to the palace safely before leaving. It is his duty… it is his…

The ground around the Prince’s feet is blue, spread rapidly across the garden towards Berne. The guard frowns. Were the bluebells _meant_ to be that shade of blue? Has the grass always been translucent, a pale icy blue that sparkles in the dim torchlight of the palace? Have his feet always been so cold? Why is it so cold? Has his… he can’t feel his legs… have they always been so… so… numb…?

He looks down, and he is as clear and blue as ice.

As the color overwhelms his vision, Berne can only think of his duty.

_For Asgard._

 

_Loki stands on the deck of the ship in the middle of an ocean. It is quiet, and then lightning flashes across the sky, a bolt of light so fast that Loki can barely see it. A storm is coming, and the waves buffet the vessel about as though it is no more than a toy to be played with, and the area is dark but Loki can clearly see the outline of two figures standing around a bed in the middle of the ship. Fear is in his veins and he knows that the ship will sink. He runs closer to the figures, hands shaking with desperation._

_“Get off the ship! Get off the ship, it is going to sink!” he cries, his voice thin and high and lost in the crack of thunder. But the voices floating back to him are clear, calm, as though the words are being spoken right next to him._

_“We should be grateful that the ice didn’t enter his heart.”_

_“It would have killed him.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“My son…”_

_He tries harder, pushes himself to run faster. “Mother! Father! I controlled myself, please get off the ship! It will going to sink!”_

_“Why would he do such a thing?” he hears Odin say. “Why?”_

_“It is not his fault, Odin. He is but a child.”_

_“If I had known-“_

_“It is not Loki’s fault, my love.”_

_“_ Get off the ship! _”_

_But no matter how fast he runs he can never get close enough for them to hear, and it’s getting harder to keep his footing as he skids and slips across the wooden deck, only when he looks down the floor isn’t wood but iced marble, and they are no longer on a ship but in a ballroom. Thor is lying there still, his face deathly pale and Loki lurches towards his brother, babbling, “Don’t die, please don’t die-“_

_When Loki touches his brother he becomes that guard in the garden, young face full of surprise, his mouth frozen permanently in an ‘o’. His skin is ice to touch and ice to see, and when Loki’s hand curls around his wrist he shatters into pieces._

Loki wakes with a start.

For a moment he does not know where he is, but he recognizes his room in the dim light. He glances out the window; it seems that he has slept for a few hours yet he feels as exhausted as he was when he fell asleep.

Miserably, he wraps his arms around his knees. His metal bedframe is now ice, he knows without even needing to touch because his sheets are stiff to move and that means that they too have been frozen. _More to be thrown out, to be burnt in secret._ Despite his best efforts he cannot take his mind off the guard in the garden – a new recruit, perhaps on one of his first nights of duty, gone now because Loki could not rein in his emotions.

Were he younger and more easily deluded Loki might blame the death on Fandral, who time and again pursue him despite his best efforts to keep that older man away. Even now, at seventeen, Loki fears doing to Fandral, to Sif, to Volstagg and Hogun, to Thor what he has done unwittingly to the guard who is now as good as dead.

A guard that he himself has killed.

But Loki knows he is at fault and Fandral has nothing to do with his curse. If only Loki were able to keep himself emotionally detached from every occurrence… Yet he knows it is near impossible, because he has tried so many times that he has given up and merely keeps his distance from people in general.

(If only Loki hadn’t gone to see Fandral at all.)

As if to add insult to injury his powers have overwhelmed Frigga’s garden. Where once bright colors bloomed was now only ice and desolation, the distinct lack of color that is fast becoming Loki’s private trademark. It wasn’t his intention to hurt the guard… or destroy the garden, vivid flowers and deep green leaves apparently eternally preserved in a cage of ice.

If he were never to look at any form of blue again Loki thinks he might be quite pleased.

Outside his window the day is dawning. Soon, they’ll find the body, the curse. There is nothing Loki can do about it now, but later… later, he will try to remove the ice.

(Later he will stand in the midst of it all wearing the thickest gloves and boots he owns, and try not to shed tears over what he might not ever be able to retrieve. In his mind, like his beloved Mother, the garden is long gone, a memory he can dredge up but will soon lose.)

It is the least he can do.

 

“We have a peace treaty with the king of Jötunheimr at this moment and it is still upheld by the Jötunn-“

“Until last night,” Tyr snaps. “The freezing of the late Queen’s garden can only be done by a Frost Giant, and I promise you, my lord Hoenir, that it is a Frost Giant who have somehow pierced our defenses and left us a warning. If we do not act-“

“It is impossible for them to sneak by Heimdall’s eye,” Thor says, his tone weary. The Crown Prince is _bored_ out of his mind; he’ll much rather be on the practice field with Sif and the Warriors Three, waving his hammer about and knocking things over (as Loki would say, were Loki in a conversational mood), but he remains trapped here until the urgent matter regarding Frigga’s garden is at least somewhat resolved. Yet it feels to him that he has said much of the same for far too long; Thor does not know how Odin has withstood this pack of educated jackals for so long, nor how he gained their allegiance. _They see me as no more than a child on training wheels._ “And Heimdall would have raised the alarm the minute he spotted any signs of malicious activity-“

“But he did not,” another council member points out. Thor turns to glare at the senior council member, who only meets his gaze impassively. “Heimdall is old, perhaps his sight is not as it was before-“

Thor has had enough. Slamming his fist onto the table before him, he snarls at the older man, “My father had complete faith in Heimdall, as do I. Do not-“

“It is merely a suggestion, my lord,” the senior council member says mildly, and something in his tone makes Thor feel like a foolish child.

Hoenir, at Thor’s right hand, gives him a faintly sympathetic look that Thor refuses to acknowledge. “Perhaps we might talk with Heimdall about what he saw the night before,” he suggests. “It is a folly to send an army into Jötunheimr immediately, as much as it is an insult to King Laufey should we demand he explain actions that may not belong to him.”

_That is a good idea._ Or at least, the best that the council is able to come up with at this time. _I am not fit to deal with them at all._

“Yes,” Thor says, struggling to hide his relief from his voice. He raises a hand to forestall any objections. “For now those are our actions; if Heimdall reports that a Jötunn has caused this… threat, then we will convene once more to discuss any further action. For now, you are dismissed. Hoenir?” Thor does not wait for them to leave the room; pushing his heavy chair back he strides around the table for the door, Hoenir by his side.

Warriors greet him as he walks by. Thor nods in acknowledgement of their friendly and respectful words, trying not to look as troubled as he feels. _They put their faith in a strong leader, so I must appear strong in both mind and body before them._ He wishes he can confide to someone who might understand their position, but his parents are gone for what equates an Asgardian year now. _Loki will never listen to my troubles._

Hoenir is the closest he can get to a confidante, but how much can he trust Hoenir? _I wish Father were here._ He has to simply follow his instincts and hope that they are right.

At Thor’s chambers he sits at the table laden with steaming food for two. Hoenir sits across from him, a plate already laid, much to Thor’s gratitude.

“Prince Thor-“

Thor holds up a hand. “Eat, before we discuss. My mind buzzes with far too many questions and it has not the strength to keep up with the circular path of thought.” Hoenir falls silent as Thor is served by a shy serving girl, her blue eyes focused on her task; she turns next to Hoenir, who accepts her servitude with a wandering eye. Thor chooses to ignore it, digging instead into his meal.

It is only when the plates and goblets are empty, and the room is clear of any life but Thor and Hoenir does Thor lean back in his chair to stare at Hoenir pensively across the table. Hoenir waits with a slight air of impatience, but to his credit his mask is calm and he does not press.

Thor speaks “What if it is a Frost Giant?”

“Jötunn,” Hoenir corrects quietly. “Be a diplomat-“

“Not just a warrior,” Thor finishes with a sigh. He leans back in his chair, bulk barely fitting in the frame. _I require a new chair,_ he thinks wryly, and for some reason the thought strikes him as amusing. He shakes his head clear of it before Hoenir thinks him mad, smiling over nothing. He brings the subject back to the issue plaguing his mind. “But what if, Hoenir? What actions do I take then?”

Hoenir smiles sympathetically at him. “What would your actions be?” his advisor says gently.

Thor hesitates. “Send an ambassador with the news of a rogue Fr- _Jötunn_ to Jötunheimr, an ambassador who might also strengthen our relations…” The future King rubs a hand over his forehead. “Gods, I wish Loki were willing to aid me in dealing with the council. He would certainly know how to sway them to his point of view.”

Hoenir doesn’t say anything but watches the Prince in unreadable silence.

“We cannot send an army to the gates of Jötunheimr,” Thor says tiredly with a tone of finality. “It will ruin everything that my… King Odin has worked towards; we must keep the peace. That should be our first priority.” He looks up at Hoenir uncertainly. “Is that not so, Hoenir?”

Hoenir dips his head a little. “Yes. However, my King, sometimes peace is not an option.”

 

The door to Loki’s room is shut, as it always is. Thor once knew every nook and cranny of his little brother’s room but now what lies behind the door is so much of a mystery that only the same two servants Loki has had since childhood know it. _They ought to retire soon_ , Thor thinks of the servants, who, were they not working for Loki, should have been let go years ago. He shakes his head; he will bring that up to Hoenir at a later date, as it is not of importance now.

As Thor always does, he falters outside his brother’s door, but where he would once have stopped and knocked, he now keeps walking by. It still hurts to see the shuttered state of his once sweet younger brother, and it is not of his own will that he walks through this area but few pass Loki’s rooms and Thor does not want to stop and speak of news that he is not yet ready to give.

He only needs release, and the best kind is found in the arena.

(Behind closed doors is second best, though Fandral insists that it is up for debate.)

Thor always assumes that his brother is hidden as usual in his rooms, fiddling with this little invention or that, but not that day. (And of course the day will not just be bad, because Thor does not know if he can withstand the blank expression Loki usually sends his way.) Loki strides from the other end of the hallway, his head high but his eyes glassy with some kind of despair Thor associates with the loss of their parents. It aches for Thor himself to see his brother still hurting, particularly since he had thought Loki in recovery recently. _I thought he was getting better._

“Brother,” he says when they draw close enough because it is useless to ignore him, not when they are the only ones in the area. Loki slows and stirs as though waking from some hideous dream, deep green eyes focusing on Thor. Thor pauses and waits for a response, not expecting much.

“Thor,” Loki says at long last, his voice hoarse and wrecked as though he has been recently crying. “I did not think they would let you out of council unless they had all taken a piece of you.”

It is the kind of response Thor doesn’t expect, and he finds himself smiling despite Loki’s closed look. “Neither did I. Thank the Gods for Hoenir, for I have come out whole.”

A small, humorless chuckle escapes his younger brother. “Thank the Gods indeed. I do not know how you deal with their idiocy. They are truly a bane upon Asgard. I am quite impressed with your patience, brother.”

Thor shrugs. “I try my best,” he says modestly, though inside his heart soars at the compliment.

Loki studies him and gives a bitter smile, but his eyes have taken on the look of cornered prey. Thor’s eyes flick down, frowning; Loki’s hands shake as though fevered. “I should not keep you from your duties, brother.” Loki bows deeply, and adds, “I am sorry.” Before Thor can even venture a guess as to what Loki might be sorry for (locking him out of his life, not being there… the list of possibilities are endless), just as swiftly as he came, Loki is gone. The door has already closed by the time Thor looks around.

_I should not be surprised_. Thor exhales quietly, and with a shake of his head continues on his way.

This is, at the very least, a start.


	4. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note but I will be soon taking off to finish my A-levels; I'll be back to writing like mad in mid-June. However, I do have several more chapters written and will post them when I have time.
> 
> To clear something up, I realize that it seems impossible for Odin and Frigga to die in the water - assume something truly horrible happened to take their lives, or assume that they've escaped to some hidden place, or their 'death' is all a part of a larger plan. I really only added in that part because in Frozen, the scene where Elsa runs away she steps onto water and turns it to ice and realizes that had she gone with her parents, they would still be there to guide her. I thought it was beautiful and too important to leave out.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your lovely kudos/comments/bookmarks. They mean a lot to me.

The training ground is alive with the clash of metal on metal, the cheers of excited voices and the panting of tiring warriors. Even with the blood that has stained the dirt floor, the stench of sweat assaulting his nostrils, Thor considers the grounds his second home, and he strides into the area without hesitation. Soldiers recognize him left and right as he enters, the older ones greeting him with a full-hearted slap on his back, while the newer recruits stammer and bow like they have never before seen the Crown Prince. Thor nods at each of them as the sea of Asgardians part for him to get through.

In the middle Thor recognizes the only woman on Asgard’s league of warriors: the Lady Sif, whose strength is constantly underestimated - particularly by the newer soldiers, having already proven her strength tenfold to those who call her comrade. Thor assumes that yet another recruit has elected himself to be an example of her undeniable strength, and he settles with a smile to watch the show.

Sif notices him out of the corner of her eye and greets Thor with a casual wave that might have been preparation for her next move, so fluidly did she execute the attack on the faltering recruit. The boy goes down like a sack of potatoes, his helmet flying off his head as he hits the ground.

“And the winner is the undefeatable Lady Sif!” Volstagg bellows, striding to grab Sif’s hand and hoist it far above her head and bursts into rambunctious laughter. Sif tugs her hand out of his grip with a roll of her eyes and a pleased smile on her face. “I did tell you,” Volstagg tells the groaning boy on the ground, “Do not underestimate and insult the lady.”

“Understood, sir,” the boy mumbles, pulling himself gingerly to his feet. He bows deeply at Sif, new respect in his eyes. “My lady.”

“You fought very well,” Sif tells him, her triumph not overriding her ego, her head - as usual – firmly on the ground. She turns then to stride towards Thor, who stands at the edge of the ring, his very presence causing the usually enthusiastic chatter from the recruits to turn to whispers of awe. Thor does not give them a glance; they will soon be used to his presence on the training grounds. Fortunately, Sif and his friends have never treated him differently; the lady calls, “Care to be challenged?” as she moves towards her childhood friend, swinging her sword lazily by her side.

Thor gives her a grin but she sees beyond the mask to the troubled thoughts he holds within, as she always does. “Did it not go well, then?” Sif asks, her voice lower so none may hear. Thor gives his head a brief shake, gesturing for her to follow him to someplace more private. They walk, and it is not until they are free from curious ears does Thor speak.

“They are convinced we were under attack the night before, but there is no sign of stolen relics nor much else,” Thor admits quietly. “And we have checked on the remaining guards; only one is dead.”

“How did he die? There are rumors, of course, but-”

“Frozen,” Thor murmurs.

Sif pauses, and says grimly, “Jötunn.”

“It may not be,” Thor tells her tiredly, but which other realm besides Jötunheimr holds creatures with the ability to freeze unmalting ice in the summer? Which other realm should learn the ice cold magic into the very nature of their being? “I need to speak with Heimdall before I make judgment.”

Sif’s lips curve in an amused smile. “Heimdall is far from here, my lord; you will not find him amongst newly recruited soldiers.”

Thor chuckles. “I am aware, Lady Sif. But I needed to-“

“Unwind? Likely. However, you may need to unwind further after he has told you all he knows,” Sif points out, and Thor knows she is right. “Come, my friend. I have finished my part on the grounds; perhaps we may take the walk to the Bifrost together.” With a smile, she takes off, beckoning him to follow. Shaking his head, Thor does.

It is useless to argue with a lady who may potentially offer his own behind to him on a golden platter.

Neither of them notice the man behind a pillar, his hand clenched tight over his heart as though in severe pain.

Fandral exhales softly, turns and walks away.

 

The guardian Heimdall guards the Bifrost from both intruders and escapees and to date his record is as close to perfect as it can possibly be. Thor has witness firsthand the man’s strength when he was quite young – twelve and refused permission to ride with the hunters by his friends’ side, he was determined to join them and so snuck into the party as they were about to leave. But Heimdall saw, and Heimdall pulled him out by the collar of his shirt just before the party has gone.

Thor of course, was punished for disobeying his parent’s wishes, but he learned a far more valuable lesson: Heimdall knows all.

Therefore he has hope that Heimdall holds the answer to his troubling question.

The dark-skinned man with amber eyes focuses on Thor and Sif, cantering up to the Bifrost on their horses, and his expression does not change as he and Sif draw nearer. “Heimdall,” Thor greets, pulling his horse up and throwing his leg over the saddle. The chestnut horse snorts and stamps a hoof, staring at Heimdall with great interest. The statuesque man dips his armored head in a bow, hands folded over the pommel of his great golden sword.

“Thor. I know why you have come.”

Thor smiles, bowing deeply in return. “Greetings Heimdall. I had hoped you did. Forgive me for forgoing our usual niceties, but I must ask: was there a Jötunn-“

“Such matters should not be spoken about in such open places,” Heimdall says, even if there is no one around but them.

A frown replaces the Crown Prince’s smile. “Of course. Perhaps we may converse in the Bifrost, Heimdall.”

Heimdall dips his head in another bow, turns and strides into the Bifrost. Thor starts to follow.

“I will wait out here,” Sif says behind him. He turns in surprise; Sif has not even dismounted her steed, the dappled gray stallion holding his head up with great pride as he dances on his toes. Sif tips her head towards the entrance. “It may not be for my ears,” she says quietly, stopping any and all of Thor’s protests at the tip of his tongue. Thor exhales quietly and turns to join Heimdall in the Bifrost.

Heimdall stands at the opening, eyes on the stars.

“The worlds are beautiful this night,” he says as Thor’s heavy steps bring him beside the guardian. “There is peace… though not without pain. The Vanir celebrate the birth of a new child – a lady to be, perhaps a queen in the future. The Midgardians have their petty squabbles; resolution is but a few steps away, though they are often unable to see it. Yet there is no fight, no war coming upon their realm. The Light-Elves dance and play as is their wont, and even their counterparts are quiet.”

Thor clears his throat. “What of Jötunheimr?”

“King Laufey raises Princes Helblindi and Býleistr with all the wisdom he may carry. He does not mourn his firstborn nor King Fárbauti as often in recent times, but they are always on his thoughts.”

It is not the news Thor is hoping Heimdall will give, though he is not certain himself what he wished to hear. “Has there been unrest in their realm?”

“No… No. All is quiet.”

Thor swallows. _Then who froze Mother’s garden?_ An Asgardian? It seems unlikely that any Asgardian sorceress or mage were willing to learn the Jötunn’s magic. _Who can it be?_

“Heimdall,” Thor begins, but Heimdall cuts him off.

“No one slipped past my watch in the night, my lord. Of that I am certain.”

“How are you certain?” Heimdall does not respond, his gaze fixed on faraway stars. “Did you see the perpetrator? Heimdall, I need answers lest the council decide to send an army to Laufey’s gates!”

The silence stretches on for a time, and Thor begins to grow impatient. He opens his mouth to speak when, slowly, Heimdall says, “Yes. I have seen who wields the magic.”

Thor’s hopes soar. “Who is it? Tell me, so I may put out word for their capture this instant.”

Heimdall turns to look at Thor, his gaze steady but sad.

“I am not at liberty to say.”

 _Not at lib-_ “I am your Prince! I demand to know what knowledge you withhold from Asgard!” Thor snaps, voice reverberating throughout the Bifrost. Then he takes a deep breath. “Holding important information to the situation can be considered an act of betrayal against Asgard, guardian, and you might find that I will act against such traitorous deeds.”

His voice does not grow in volume, but still echoes over smooth metal, the obvious threat ringing in Thor’s own ears. In that instant he is guilty for speaking out against one man he knows he can trust most in Asgard; from the look on Heimdall’s face, he fears he went too far and may have lost Asgard’s guardian forever.

And then Heimdall bows, slow and deep.

“I apologize, my King, but I truly am not at liberty to say, by an oath of blood I have made. However,” he says, stopping Thor before he starts, “I can tell you that the mage wishes no one harm… it was an accident, and the mage now pays for it in regret.”

“Regret,” Thor echoes quietly, his shoulders slumping. “How can I speak to Berne Olverson’s family and tell them their son’s killer pays for his crime in regret?” He shakes his head slowly. “We still need to find this mage, Heimdall, before he causes another ‘accident’.”

Heimdall studies the Prince, and nods.

“I will do what I can to aid you without breaking my oath, my Prince.” Thor gratefully inclines his head towards Heimdall before he turns to go. He has not taken two steps to the exit when behind him, Heimdall says, “But you will not harm the mage, even if you should find him.”

Thor pauses. “Have you the gift of foresight, Heimdall?” he asks over his shoulder.

“No.” There is a small smile in the guardian’s voice. “But I know this with all my heart.” A pause. “I hope your coronation goes well, Prince Thor.”

Thor swallows and leaves.

 

“Conceal it, don’t feel it,” Loki whispers to himself, bare hands shaking around the goblet of wine. _Remain calm, Loki._ The wine sloshes a little in the metal goblet, but does not turn to ice. “Conceal, don’t feel-“

_The guard is frozen where he stands, lips parted in a perfect circle, his last breath leaving in an exhale of steam from where he once breathed-_

“Conceal-“

Ice cracks in the goblet, the wine frozen where it rises up like a painting of a stormy sea, the red crest curved in towards the body like a proud and angry horse preparing to charge and destroy everything in its path. Loki drops the goblet with a frustrated cry, eyes filling with unneeded tears. The ice shatters on the ground, dagger-like shards skidding across the floor to lie glimmering in the sun.

 _Conceal, conceal it, conceal it and don’t feel it_.

In his haste to retrieve his well-worn leather gloves Loki knocks over his tray of food, which falls with a deafening clatter. Somewhere nearby he can hear the patter of worried feet, perhaps his mother’s trusted servant, one of the few outsiders Frigga has confided in of Loki’s curse. It is a blessing indeed that the lady had not shrunk away from him, but grown to accept Loki as her master.

He yanks on his gloves just as she bursts in, out of breath from the exertion. Guiltily, Loki whips around to see her expression as she takes in the mess, the destruction he has caused.

“I am sorry,” he says without thinking, and Nilda clicks her tongue at him.

“Do not apologize, my lord,” she says, closing the door and locking it behind her. “Come, sit, I will clear the mess.”

When she pulls up her sleeves Loki spots the pale white scar across her palm, a scar from what he assumes was a blood oath made in his name, to keep his secret close to her and no one else. It is too straight for any accident at such an odd place. Swallowing his pride, Loki bends to help her gather the still-solid shards and place them on the tray. The frozen wine will melt when Nilda passes through his father’s wards.

The goblet, on the other hand…

Nilda bends to touch the goblet gingerly through her sleeve, but flinches and pulls back, the heavy metal falling once with a _clang!_ Loki immediately hurries over to pick it up; the metal is still warm to his skin, and he gives Nilda a look of sheer guilt. “I am sorry,” he says again. “I did not mean to-“

“Hold your tongue,” she tells him gently. “It was an accident.”

Loki swallows his words and looks helplessly at the mess around him. Nilda guides him back to sit. “Stay here, do not move,” she says with almost motherly affection (how he misses Frigga) before she kneels slowly to start gathering the fallen food. Loki can only see the profile of her face, and notes the pain that flickers over her face when she stretches forwards or sideways.

 _I will lose her soon,_ he thinks to himself.

When she is done, Nilda puts the tray out of sight, unlocks the door and calls one of the younger serving girls to retrieve another tray of food for the Prince. Then she shuffles to Loki’s side. “Were you cut?” she asks, critically looking at his face. Loki flushes lightly.

“No. Not that I know of.”

Nilda nods, glancing briefly at his feet to make sure that they were truly booted and he was not lying. He does not know why she checks because even then she bends to make sure, once deft fingers fumbling with the material of his clothes. Loki takes her hand aside and pulls his leggings up over his hairless calf, showing no injury.

There is a knock on the door, and Loki lifts his head, tugging the leggings back down as Nilda stands slowly and shuffles to the door. Briefly she exchanges words with the serving girl, who curtseys before hurrying away. Nilda returns with a tray, which she places with care upon the small table beside Loki’s favorite chair.

“Eat,” she tells him, but before she may shuffle away to her inconspicuous corner, Loki’s hand darts out to grab her wrist.

“Please, sit with me.” Nilda gives him a startled look, and he forces a smile on his face. “My meals are often lonely, I would like some company.”

“It is against protocol, my lord.”

“Damn all the protocols to Hel. If I am your lord then I insist you sit with me.” He hesitates. “Please, it is the least I can do for you.” _You are stuck to serve me ‘til your death, left to live your life as someone’s servant rather than a mother, a sister, a grandmother or an aunt. And you are so old, you are hurting and it is my fault. It’s all my fault._

“My dear Prince Loki,” Nilda says quietly, freeing her hand to rest it on the top of Loki’s head. He looks up at her, eyes beseeching, but she knows him too well to fall for any of his tricks. “If you are guilty for my choice to stay and serve you and your family, know that the All-Mother told me that I am free to leave at any time, but I choose to remain here. I have grown fond of you, for you are truly a joy to care after. Feel no guilt, my dear Prince; I will serve you to my dying breath, and then leave your well-being in the fate of a serving-girl who I myself trust with my heart, and I will have served you from beyond the grave through her. Do not feel guilt, my dear. You are a prince, not a prisoner.”

At the end of her speech Loki’s eyes are full of tears and he longs to hold his surrogate mother in an embrace as he has not embraced any in far too long a time. It’s hard to breathe, but he does, strange choking noises escaping his body. Loki reaches for her but pulls back, afraid to see the ice on Nilda’s skin as well. “I killed him,” Loki blurts out, chest heaving with rapid breaths as the words pour out of his mouth like poison he has kept in for years and years even if it has had only hours to fester in his heart. “I killed him.” _His eyes are ice and there is no way to bring him home to life-_

“Killed whom, my lord?”

“The guard – in the garden, I killed him, it was all my fault, I killed him and I didn’t want to but it’s my fault-“ _Why me? Why me, why me, why me?_

“An accident,” Nilda says.

“Odin would not see it as such.” Even saying his father’s name burns a hole into his chest and he clenches a fist over his heart, feeling it beat – one, two, one, two- His breath is lost to him, and he leans into Nilda’s touch like an animal starved for affection when she pulls Loki’s head against her bosom, stroking his neatly combed hair as he sobs his despair into her serving dress.

She waits until his shaking has given way to soft, sleepy hiccups and the occasional sniffle before whispering, “Your father understands accidents, my dear Prince. He will never regret having you as a son.”


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. Let me know if you spot grammatical errors or inconsistencies, I may have missed some. 
> 
> Things are a little slow on the Clint/Loki front at this moment in time but it'll pick up. Soon. Eventually. Someday. 
> 
> Expect a late update for the next chapter too - exams are still happening. Sorry. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

The council reconvenes at the crack of dawn the very next day, much to Thor’s distaste, and even before he is seated they are whispering furiously among each other. _I will have thought them too tired to bicker at this forsaken hour._ Sighing inwardly, Thor takes in the room and is surprised at the level of hostility between several of the members: Hoenir is frowning at Tyr, who in turn glowers at young and fair-haired Gunderus. The council-member closest to Thor’s age has the expression of the chastised but still he sits straight, eyes meeting everyone else’s.

Thor ignores them, assuming that Gunderus has spoken out of turn against Tyr – _it will not,_ Thor thinks to himself, _be the first time._

Shaking his head a little, Thor sits and raps the tiny golden hammer against its stand. “The council comes to meeting at this time,” he says, already fighting the urge not to yawn midway through his sentence. “I have news from Heimdall, who tells us that there was no threat upon Asgard the night of the freezing; it was no Jötunn delivering a warning from their king, but rather an… accident from an Asgardian mage.”

“An accident that killed a man is still murder,” Tyr says, though his voice is calmer than when he campaigned against Laufey’s people. “Our own Healers have spoken; the ice is borne from Frost Giant magic; clearly they should be punished for-“

Gunderus slams his hands down on the table in frustration. “We cannot punish them for deeds they have not-“

“They are vile creatures, and they hold no love for us; who knows when they’ll press the advantage of the All-Father’s demise?”

Thor stiffens and glares down at his hands.

“The treaty is in place and there are other ways-“

“Enough!” Hoenir says sharply. Gunderus and Tyr stare at each other on their feet, breaths heaving their chests as they stare each other down. Thor pinches the bridge of his nose; _let Hoenir handle these two,_ he thinks in frustration, _I have had enough of these jackals. Let him handle this situation._ “Enough,” Hoenir repeats, glancing at Thor. “My lord, there is a matter of importance you must be aware of.”

“Tyr has sent King Laufey a message,” Gunderus says with a snarl.

At that, Thor’s head shoots up. “What kind of message?” he says sharply, the warrior in him already singing with delight; the blood he might shed! The battles he might wage and win! Skirmishes with which he might prove his worth!

 _But no_. No, he can do none of that for he is now King of Asgard - or will soon be. Forcibly, Thor reels in his thoughts to attempt to think in ways that do not involve bloodshed and war. _Keep the peace, if only for Father and Mother's sake._

“It is one of-“

“Let Tyr speak for himself,” Hoenir tells Gunderus, who subsides if reluctantly.

Tyr’s lips curl up in a sneer as he scans the room. “I merely said that a Jötunn mage is on Asgard, and should Laufey not return the creature to its rightful place it will be considered an act of war.”

 _It is not even a good reason,_ Thor thinks with a sinking heart. Does he truly hate Jötunheimr so much that he will risk war on Asgard to act out his beliefs? _I agree with him that the Frost Giants are brutes and should be put down but even I will not risk the fragile peace for my prejudice._ Then, how did he send the message at all? _Is the royal seal not needed any longer?_ Thor does not honestly recall if that was a motion he once passed - but in truth, he does not recall many of the motions he had agreed upon out of pure boredom.  _It might have been_ , he thinks guiltily for the briefest moment before shaking his head and bringing his mind back to the issue at hand. 

Tyr has his arms folded as Thor lifts his gaze to stare at him, disbelief written in plain lines on his face. The muttering among the other members starts up again, their voices background noise to Thor’s sluggishly working mind. _What will Father have done?_

“Tyr, son of Ivarr,” Thor says slowly, drawing out the words for more time as he attempts to find paths which he is certain Loki will have seen from the very start. _There are none. Are there none? Is this truly the only road left for me to tread?_  The council grows silent, watching him as though gauging his every reaction. _I must act as Father does, to gain their respect._ He resists looking at Hoenir to check for approval. Swallowing, he continues, “You have acted against your Regent’s orders, and have risked war for your own needs by threatening war to one of Asgard’s allies. For this… I lift the responsibility of the council from your shoulders and sentence you to a century in Asgard’s prison. You will be treated with respect as a former council member, and your family is given permission to visit you there.” Taking a deep breath, Thor meets Tyr’s gaze and calls for the guards to take him away.

Tyr goes with hate in his eyes, but he says not a word.

When the doors have slammed shut behind Tyr and his guards, and the last of the echoes have faded away, a lone man takes up applause. Thor blinks and looks upon Gunderus, who is on his feet and applauding him with a look of respect on his face.

Others join in – not all the council, for that will be too much to hope for, but few and of those few some had even served with Thor’s father. Four. Four of twelve is not a bad number, particularly since Hoenir is constantly on his side. _Four is not 'few',_ he hears Loki's scathing mutter but ignores it. Four is enough, for now. Hoenir gives him an encouraging grin even if he does not stand to applause. He seems proud.  _  
_

The room rings with their applause, and Thor feels warmth bloom in his heart. _I have done right by Odin... I have done right by him_

When they have finally seated themselves Thor thinks, I did not know Tyr was so unpopular.

“We need to discuss what should be told of these events to King Laufey,” he says aloud.

“Might I suggest, sire,” one of the older members says. _Brimir,_ Thor recognizes. He nods, giving the man permission. “Might I suggest that we send an ambassador of peace along with gifts and invitations to your coronation?”

 _My… coronation._ Thor has almost forgotten about that.

“It is the most we can do, it seems,” Thor says tiredly. “Very well.” He nods to Brimir, then glances at Hoenir. “Please draft the letter and have it in my hands by dinner. No exceptions; it is of utmost importance.” Hoenir dips his head.

“I ask for leave, then, my lord, to begin my work.”

“You have it.” Hoenir stands and strides off quickly. Thor turns to Brimir. “Lord Brimir, I trust you are able to choose the gifts for King Laufey?”

Brimir bows his head. “It will be my pleasure, sire.”

“Very well. The council is dismissed.”

_At long last._

 

Days later, the message sent and a reply sitting upon Thor’s desk, the Crown Prince contemplates his choices and his future.

 _King._ The word has always held so much more grandeur than the position itself; long ago Thor thought it a marvelous job and worthy of his skillset, but now he is no longer sure. Being a king means so much more than simply being a warrior. Perhaps he is not of the right temperament to rule at all.

Reaching for the letter again, Thor’s eyes scan the words: The situation is understood, and King Laufey graciously allows the words of Tyr Ivarrson to be forgotten _once._ King Laufey further suggests that Prince Regent Thor firm his hold upon his subjects, lest they destroy all that the late King Odin has worked for in a precarious search for a mage who may or may not exist as a Jötunn in the golden realm of Asgard. King Laufey would like to accept the royal invitation to Prince Regent Thor's coronation, and wishes him well.

Thor sighs. A thinly veiled threat. They cannot afford to insult the Frost Giants any further, but he does not know how Asgardians will react to the king of Frost Giants in their midst. The peace between Asgard and Jötunheimr is even more precarious than before and he fears that it will tip over completely when Laufey sees the mindset of Thor’s people. _Tyr, you idiot._

A knock on his door. Thor starts and calls, “Come in.”

Hoenir steps into the study and bows. “You requested my presence, my Prince?”

“Yes.” Thor folds the letter and sets it atop the stone desk. _More tasks that I do not wish to delegate, that I do not wish to exist - yet I must, and yet it does._ “I require you to speak with Nilda daughter of Helga.”

“Nilda?” Hoenir seems genuinely surprised. “What of her? Has she offended you, my Prince?”

Thor exhales quietly. “No, nothing of the sort. She is… old. She should be with family, not looking after Loki all her life.”

“Prince Loki has been looked after Nilda for all his life, my lord.”

“I know. But she deserves this rest, more so than so many others.”

“He will be devastated. He may be ruined."  _Particularly after the loss of your parents,_ Hoenir doesn't say, and Thor pretends he does not see the words hanging in the air between them. He gives a slight scoff of false certainty and crosses his arms.

“My brother is much stronger than that. He is a son of Odin."

“She will like to remain here, my lord, as we have spoken about her retirement before.”

Thor rubs his temple and squints up at Hoenir. “Then tell her it is an order from her Prince that she return to her family. I will not see her suffering through her work as she has; it is cruel and unkind and I do not wish to be either." With a shaky exhale, he passes his hands over his eyes and says, "Please, Hoenir. She has done well, and I wish it need not be so, but she will pass and I will not have her furious family demanding why we have mistreated her when she has dedicated all her life to serving us. This is merely an act of prevention, as well as one of fondness and gratitude." When Hoenir still looks dubious, Thor says, "Tell her she will be well cared for until her time, tell her..." Thor shakes his head and reaches for a letter he wrote for Hoenir to give Nilda. "I have all the conditions and words of gratitude in this letter."

"She cannot read, sire."

"Then you may read it, Hoenir, and read it to her."

Hoenir swallows, coming further into the room to retrieve the paper and bows again. “Of course. Is there anything else, sire?”

“No.” Thor’s gaze is drawn to the letter on his desk. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach out to touch the edge, to show his adviser its contents; but he sighs instead, eyes sliding shut as he murmurs a soft, “No, Hoenir.”

 

Loki learned early on how to avoid drawing the attention of anyone as he slips through hallways. It is, he long ago decided, mostly skill but also partially luck, and Loki has been fairly lucky in this respect.

Usually his ability to sneak by watchful gazes were used solely for his own entertainment, but not this day. This day Loki escapes the palace not to alleviate his boredom, for the following day is Thor’s coming-of-age and Loki is determined that he will find Thor a gift worthy of such a momentous occasion. Even if it should get him caught and dragged unceremoniously back to the palace Loki _will_ find a good gift, to make up for all those years prior when Loki requested Nilda's assistance in choosing a gift, worried that he might somehow curse them with a touch of his hand.  _Childish._

Yet this occasion is too special to delegate the task upon another Asgardian, even if Nilda is one he trusts most. This year it must be personal, and Loki plans to make it so.

Evading the guards in the palace is child’s play for Loki, but evading the ones at the gate is no simple feat. Loki manages it, however, with a muttered spell that takes him from behind the looking tower to a shadowed alley on the other end of the bridge. On the other end Loki feels as though he has been sucked through a vacuum to land in relative darkness; the spell exhausts him but he shakes it off determinedly before flipping his hood over his face and slipping into the busy crowd. From there he is carried like a helpless droplet of water down a river of people - straight into the market, much to Loki’s relief. _I fear losing my way in the city of my birth - I do not believe it must be so, that it should be so... Yet I do._ It is truly a saddening thought.

Nevertheless, Loki soon reaches his destination and almost eagerly he looks around, eyes lit up with childish delight as he takes in the sights and sounds of Asgard’s morning market. The shrieks of children catch his attention, and he tilts his head to see the younglings around him laugh and dance and play while the more placate adults move easily through the crowd, the sound of their cheerful chatter twirling with other conversations in the air to assault Loki's ears.

"Mother! Look at this pie, is it not gorgeous?"

"Aya, put that sword down, you are not Lady Sif-"

"Darling, this fabric is wonderful to marry-"

"I would like five of this lovely fruit, for dinner-"

"That would be-"

"-wonderful?"

"My wares come straight from-"

"-how lovely!"

The cacophony of sound is not alien to Loki, for he  _has_ been to several feasts in his youth - and is still obligated to entertain a few more - but unlike the feasts the noise of voices in the market are somewhat pleasant, lacking the barely hidden animosity and the inelegant jeering of Asgard's finest. 

However the scents are what catch his attention most; Loki can smell the food of the commoners and it is surprisingly tempting to stop and buy some for himself. Small, sticky pies kept warm over a fire, brilliantly red apples dipped in dripping caramel, roasted nuts and so many other types of food all cause Loki’s stomach to grumble despite the hearty breakfast he has eaten not too long ago.  _The food truly looks wonderful; I would like to sample some in the future... Perhaps with Thor, or with... with Fandral, if he... would escort me._ He mustn't lead Fandral on like thus, and Thor is far too large and shines far too brightly to ever fit inconspicuously into a crowd.  _Perhaps I will come alone, instead._

Clearing his head with a soft breath, Loki reminds himself that he is on a mission and he is determined to stand by it, at least for the time being. _The food can wait; Thor's coming-of-age cannot._ Pushing through the crowd Loki scans the stalls for something that might suit his brother.

His gaze skips over a jewelry stall, the vivid gems surely useless to his brother, the King-to-be; he lingers at the stall selling iridescent, charmed seashells but thinks Thor will surely crush them in his clumsy hold before he can even figure out its use. _What a waste, they look incredible._ He barely gives the stall selling velvety cloaks a glance, the fine fabric sold there easily available to them both in the palace. _And I'll never convince Thor to part with his red._  Loki's brother has no love for books, and though Loki thinks he will have much use for the uniquely colored feather quills sold at a particular stall that catches Loki's attention, Thor will surely find it a disappointing gift. _This is much more difficult than I expected it to be._

Just ahead of Loki is the side of the market that leads to the residences, and he is disappointed that he is unable to find something to suit his brother for nothing but trinkets have caught his eye. _Perhaps I should get him a charmed shell in the end… and request it be made unbreakable lest Thor crush it. I can pay, after all. Or perhaps a sweetened apple will be better-suited - at least he will enjoy it, for the scant seconds his teeth will chew._

Loki is about to turn around in disappointment to head back to the stall with charmed shells (or the one with sweetened apples, he has not yet made up his mind) when a glint of metal catches his eye. Loki turns again to stare at the stall and is greeted by an array of bracelets sold by an old man smoking a wooden pipe. His sign proclaims the bracelets to be, ‘Unbreakable and magical!’

“G’day, son!” the man says, having noticed Loki looking. “Lookin’ for some nice bracelets?”

Loki brushes a gloved hand against the wristlets and recognizes the gentle thrum of benevolent magic. “Are these truly magical?” Loki says, even as he feels the unique magic welded into the metal brush against his own shyer power in a friendly manner, much like a house pet would against its friend. He feels his power purr in his core and he stifles a smile. “And unbreakable?”

“They are blessed with Vanir spells, if tha’s wha’ yer askin’. Spells against elements, or physical harm, or mental harm... but not against death,” the man adds hurriedly as Loki opens his mouth to ask. “No stoppin’ death.”

“No, of course,” Loki murmurs, staring down at the metal circlets contemplatively. He traces a finger down the side of one and feels the tendril of curious power wrap around his finger like a babe.

“I can show ye a lil’ somethin’, if ye like; prove they’re unbreakable, if I may.”

Lifting his eyes briefly, Loki smiles a little. “That would be kind of you.”

“Pick any one of ‘em, I’ll prove it.”

 _Any one? Hm._ Loki gently pulls free of the bracelet's soothing hold before lifting it to check its label.  _Calming._ His lips curve a little and he lowers it. Thor could use that, perhaps, but at the same time he will be useless on the battlefield without his rage and his might. He lowers it to cast his hands over the bracelets, peering at their labels before, finally,  Loki chooses the one with a shimmery green stone embedded into the metal. The label says it is a detector of poisons. Handing it to the old man, he steps back and watches as the old man places the gauntlet upon a metal block and picks up a hammer.

“Now ye watch, see-“

With a ringing _clang!_ the old man brings the hammer down to meet the side of the bracelet. Loki winces involuntarily; the force that drove the hammer down was surely enough to dent the side, or shatter the stone, to unleash the wrath of the otherwise protective power upon him-

But it does not, as the old man holds it out for Loki to see. There is not a mark upon the bracelet and Loki finds himself rather impressed.

“Dwarf-made, these,” the old man says happily. “'stremely durable.”

“So I see,” Loki says with another tiny smile, casting a more interested gaze across the array of bracelets. The old man notices.

“So are ye interested?” 

“Incredibly,” Loki admits, picking up a bracelet to check the label. The smile on his lips widen into a little grin as his magic sparkles with excitement.  _This is the one._

“What will it be, then, eh?”

The Prince hands his choice over to the beaming man. “This one, if you please. And I would like it kept in the best velvet-lined box you own."

 

Hoenir finds Nilda humming to herself as she works, worn and calloused hands tidying Loki’s bedroom with the ease of much practice. For a brief moment a wave of guilt washes through him for what he is about to do, for what anxiety he is about to place upon this woman who has cared for Prince Loki as though he is her son, and he sends a quick request for forgiveness from Odin and Frigga.  _I do not wish this,_ he wants to say to them.  _I do not have a choice._

There is no response, but Hoenir was not expecting one.

_It is best to not drag this out._

Taking a deep breath, he clears his throat.

Nilda looks at him over her shoulder, ceasing her work briefly to give him a creaky curtsy. “Lord Hoenir,” she says, her voice wavering as she returns to the task of arranging Prince Loki's desk.  _Has she always sounded so old?_  “If you would speak with Loki, he is not here but I will pass on the message that you are in search of his counsel, if that is what you wish.”

“It is not his counsel I seek, Nilda.”

Nilda snorts. “Well it is not mine, either, I wager.”

Hoenir chuckles. “I would not so wager if I were you. You have much been wise where others have been foolish - and are still foolish." He gives the lady a smile and a bow and she snorts again.

"Beware your actions, my lord, or one strange to us might think me a queen." Hoenir laughs, his face lighting up despite the crows feet that web from the corners of his eyes, despite the harrowed lines carved around his lips.

"I should not think being thought queen is a cause for worry."

Nilda clicks her tongue at him like she knows things he will not ever understand - and Hoenir would not be too surprised either, if she does - before saying, "What have you come to speak with me for?”

Hoenir's good mood evaporates like water on a skillet and he swallows. Nilda sees the change on his face and her hands falter before determinedly moving on. For a moment there is nothing but the sound of books being stood upon Loki's desk and Hoenir's heartbeat in his ears.

"Out with it, my lord, for I am a busy woman."

Hoenir's throat clicks when he opens his mouth to speak. 

“Prince Thor feels that you have long since passed the age of retirement.”

Nilda’s hands slow again at that, and she turns to look at Hoenir seriously. “You understand why I have stayed.” Her eyes flick to his hand, where his scarred palm mirrors her own - almost as though it is an accusation, a burden to be placed upon Hoenir's shoulders - and move back up to meet his, defiant and a little angry. He closes his hand into a fist - like a guilty man - and exhales. 

“Yes. But the Crown Prince does not,” Hoenir reminds her gently.

“Can you not speak with him? I have promised to not leave Prince Loki’s service.”

“I am sorry, Nilda,” he says quietly. _I am sorry because Thor is Prince Regent, Thor has control over Asgard and I cannot defy his wishes, I can only ensure that he does not destroy the realm for the lack of experience. This is his choice. I have naught to do with it; i wish I have naught to do with it!_  He knows she understands the look on his face, can read beyond the steady gaze and tired smile. “You have today to pack and choose a suitable replacement for your position… I trust you will make the right one.” _Make the right decision in revealing Loki's magic, his heritage. Asgard cannot afford to have a King in grief over a brother killed by his own servant._  Hoenir gives her a sad smile. “He would have let you stay for the coronation but fears you will want to care for Loki even as a guest.”

Nilda’s eyes fill with silent tears but her craggy face does not change, steel entering her spine. “I see. Will I be given time to speak with Prince Loki?”

He hesitates. “If you have time, if you feel it is beneficial to Prince Loki’s health… I suppose you must.”

Nilda bows her head with a nod. “Thank you. Allow me to finish my work and I will speak with the girl I trust this position of secrecy with.” Hoenir bows silently to her before leaving to her quiet sniffles, guilt in his heart.

 

Nilda is absent when Loki returns to his chambers but it is not unusual; he assumes she is busy with her duties elsewhere. However, he wishes she will hurry this day, for he is pleased with his choice of present and wishes to show it to her as soon as he can, as well as inform her of the delights of Asgardian markets though she may be well-versed in their charm. Nevertheless he must be patient and wait.

Carefully, Loki sets the box on his table where food is already laid out, and settles to study his plate, feeling a mixture of contentment and excitement for the following day. His brother was to be king!  _I hope he will like the gift... perhaps I should give it to him tonight, before he is too inebriated to accept it, so I may change it should he not like it._ But Loki thinks Thor will love it.  _I only wish I could have crafted them in my own hand._

The food has never looked so appetizing, and Loki finds himself eating much faster than he usually might. The plates are scraped clean and his water drained swiftly – Loki hardly touches wine, fearing the effects of the alcohol on his use of magic (on his lack of control over his powers) – and Loki finds that he desires more.

(He knows in Thor’s rooms food arrives at a steady pace, course after course for Thor to inhale, starving oaf that he always is; but Loki has never had his brother’s appetite and so, at his request, he has a singular tray to enjoy.)

He pulls the rope for the bell that calls Nilda and waits at the window, hands folded behind his back. Even the night is beautiful, the stars glittering brilliantly in the multicolored sky with the Bifrost sitting proudly upon the horizon – or so it seems from Loki’s window. Nevertheless he enjoys the view, wondering how he has never noticed the beauty of Asgard until now; the city shimmers with the lights of warm homes, and – though Loki cannot hear it – is uplifted by warm sound. 

 _It is a beautiful night_. For one insane moment Loki wishes to be a part of it, to leap out the window and lift himself up into the stars and join them, a Loki-shaped constellation to watch over the golden city, an angel, a guardian; then he laughs and rests a gloved hand upon the windowsill, leaning out to breathe in the sweet air.  Though he has no intention of burying himself in the stars to shine as bright as Thor's sun he will carry a part of it in his self at the very least.

Footsteps signal the arrival of Nilda and... a girl with a freshly bandaged hand at her side. “Prince Loki?” Nilda says, both of them curtsying at once. Loki blinks at the girl in slight confusion but shrugs to himself and speaks to Nilda.

“I would like a second tray, if it is possible,” he says, gesturing to the empty tray that still sits on his table. “I find my appetite much more than it has ever been this night.”

“Of course, my lord,” Nilda says. She nods to the girl, who slips back out the servant’s entrance to retrieve him a tray. Loki watches her go with a frown of curiosity.

“Who is she?” he asks Nilda the minute the door to the servant's entrance slides fully shut and is covered by a well-placed curtain. "Are you training a new servant?" Even as he speaks Loki crosses over to where he placed Thor's present, fully intending to show Nilda once he has received an answer.

Though, of course, it is never the answer he wishes to hear.

After a moment's hesitation, Nilda says, “My replacement.”

Loki whirls around and blinks at her. “Your…”

“Prince Thor has made the decision to return me to my family home, my lord.” Nilda watches him with tears in her eyes and Loki feels his new-found happiness crumble into dust, the breath of sweet air escaping him to twist around him like a vice in which he cannot move, cannot speak. 

He forces words: “But… You…”

But he is at a loss, his heart pounding too fast in his chest like fear is an accelerator and has found the drug to make his heart race to its end. _Stop._ Loki has to breathe for a moment, to calm his thoughts even as his hands shake and he has to tuck them behind his back again lest his powers take control of him and destroy Nilda. He breathes before saying in a falsely cheerful voice, “That is good news, is it not? You will live with your family once more.”

“My Prince-“

“I am truly, truly happy for you,” Loki tells her, and tears pour down his cheeks in silence; he turns away so she might not see but he knows she has. Taking a deep breath, he continues, “I wish you all the best, Nilda, and I am grateful to you; if you have any trouble, send word and I will do my best to aid-“

“My dear, sweet, stubborn Prince,” Nilda says, her voice as thick with tears as his throat feels, “Sit down and be quiet; I will hold you once more.”

Mouth closed, Loki obeys, sitting like his legs have given up standing, but he refuses to look up at her, fearing that he will sob like a child should he meet her gaze. Nilda wraps her arms wordlessly around him and holds his head against her bosom for the last time.

 

Loki awakens not to the sun turning the back of his eyelids red, nor to the smell of breakfast from his tray and Nilda’s gentle and calloused hands rousing him, but to incessant knocking on his door and his name spoken many times in a loud but familiar voice that has been at his door for far too long now. 

"Loki?  _Loki,_ you sleepy Prince, are you awake? Awaken! I must speak with you, Loki.” Fandral's words come muffled through his door, and Loki sighs, turning his head to look out the window. It is still dark, and briefly Loki wonders if Thor has returned from his 'pre-coronation celebration', as Volstagg calls it.  _"And more celebration to be had after, then we may boast we have drunk with the King!"_

Smiling a little to himself at the thought of Thor staggering drunkenly into council, he rolls over on his back.  _Thor will have received the present by now._ Loki's eyes slide briefly shut. He had earlier sent off an illusion carrying the present to his brother, as he had been unsure of his ability to rein himself in among men who will surely touch any part of him they may reach.  _I have enough of it at feasts_ , Loki thinks, feeling bile rise to his throat and power tingle at his hands.  _Do not think of it._

Outside his room, Fandral slams on the door again. "Please, Loki, I must  _speak_ with you." His voice breaks and Loki hardens his heart. _  
_

He waits a moment. “What of?” he says back, knowing his voice will be audible in the empty hallway through his door.

“Loki! You have awoken - I must speak with you, let me in."

"Why?"

"It is a matter of urgency, my Prince.”

“Is the palace on fire?”

A pause of what must be confusion. “No, my Prince.”

“Am _I_ on fire?”

“…Not that I am aware, my Prince.”

“Then it is not urgent and you may catch me at a more convenient hour.” Loki tugs the covers back over his head and closes his eyes, hoping beyond hope that Fandral will now let him alone. _The stubborn man should leave me be; I do not want his affections, nor do I need them,_ he thinks fiercely, tugging the covers closer to himself.

“Loki,” Fandral says in a tone too familiar for his liking, and Loki feels his patience rush out from under his covers as he throws them back. _He uses my name too familiarly; it is not for him to decide what he should call me; he must be told to address me appropriately, that is all, I do not desire to see his cursed face nor his smile nor any part of him at this time - at all!_  Tugging his robe over his shoulders and fastening the belt across his waist, Loki crosses to the door and yanks it open to greet Fandral with his best look of disdain. Too late he realizes that he should have checked his reflection before answering the door, not because he likes to look his best around Fandral but because speaking with him in this state feels far too intimate for a Prince and one of his warriors. _Too late._

He need not worry; Fandral’s gaze is unfocused – drunk, Loki realizes – and with one hand raised as though in the process of knocking he has forgotten how, he stumbles into Loki, who catches him with a curse (and shoves him aside quickly lest his magic takes advantage of his bare hands to destroy one he... one whose service he appreciates). Fear spiking in his heart, he hurries to pull the articles of clothing on, stepping into covered slippers for extra protection. Fandral has not noticed “What is it you _want_ , Fandral? You cannot hope to spend the night warming my sheets even if you wish it, my answer is no and will always _be_ -"

Loki's angry words trail off, for Fandral does not seem to hear; the idiot’s sword is out and he is waving it at every corner of Loki’s room as though it were some kind of charm against demons, his drunken expression comical when twisted into a look of what he must think is heroic. Slowly, Loki raises an eyebrow of confusion. "Fandral?"

“Come out, you foul creature,” Fandral slurs, shaking the sword harder. It almost flies out of his palm; _it is a miracle he has not lost his hold_. “I know your plan; I know you hide, lying in wait for reasons known only to us both! You will not have him as your own for he is mine and mine only, my darling, my light - you will not touch my Prince, not while I have life in my body and breath in my lungs, for he is mine to love for eternity.”

He jerks around when Loki steps closer to him with the intention of sitting Fandral down and potentially testing him for hallucinatory poisons. Fandral then relaxes before reaching out to pull Loki’s slighter frame against his own. Loki lets out a yelp and then snarls in protest, struggling in Fandral's surprisingly strong grip. “Stay with me, my love, lest they harm you. I have stood by and watched idly as you are placed in greater and greater danger but I cannot wait any longer! Stay with me and they will not harm me... I mean you.” He hiccups and turns to face the corners again.

“Lest who harm me?” Loki asks as mildly as he can, wriggling out of Fandral’s warm hold while he is distracted. “You are drunk, Lord Fandral. You should not be here.”

Fandral does not seem to hear the second sentence. “Frost Giants,” he tells Loki, the _r_ sound clumsily rolled by a tongue thickened with drink, “They attacked the garden you and I stood in; you were so close to danger, my love, and I was not there to save you! I fear they plot again against your life. But no more! For I, Fandral, hero to my love, am here!"

_What?_

“I will protect you this time! Come out, foul beasts!” Fandral calls towards the shadowy corners of Loki’s room, staggering forwards. “Come out and face me like a warrior!”

The scene is comical but Loki stares up at the older man with dawning horror as his mind speeds to conclusions. _Frost Giants? Why does he think a Jötunn will be out to kill me? It was my curse, my own magic that… that…_

His heart is a weight in his chest and it sinks down to his feet, leaving him breathless and gasping as though he was struck on the chest with Mjölnir. _A Jötunn’s ice almost never melts, not for days, not for weeks._ Powers that he was born with… Powers he was instructed never to display before a multitude of Asgardians who hold no love for Jötunheimr, who fear that the _monsters_  seek to steal their children and wreak havoc upon their homes.  _You were adopted, my love, but it makes you no less ours._ Mother’s hands too warm when they hold him but still lovely to a young, ill Loki because they are the hands of his Mother – _or should I even call her as such?_

The cold has never bothered him, and with sickening feeling Loki thinks he knows why.

_Monster._

“Get out,” Loki says to the still drunk Fandral, now bellowing curses at nothing. He hears not, and Loki somehow did not expect him to. He sucks in a deep breath, feeling his anger, his despair and everything in between rise up like a tidal wave ready to swallow him-

“ _Get out!_ ”

Fandral jerks around at his voice, still drunk, and at Loki's furious expression decides wisely to escape the room before Loki should do something rash on him. (A part of Loki thinks upon the guard in the garden and thinks,  _He has no idea how rash._ ) Loki watches him go and, with an enraged cry, rips his glove free and unleashes a concussive blast of ice at first the door to slam it shut, then his fireplace which crackles far too merrily for Loki’s liking. The flames freeze where they are, the little sparks falling with gentle clinks upon ice before shattering on the floor. 

Loki does not stop there, his power leaping out of him without his bidding, shaped by his anger, and it strikes the windows, the bed, the bookcase, the ice encasing each object and spreading around it like _poison_ , like  _pain_ and  _hurt_ and all the  _rage_ in his veins bubbling over and out his clawed, shaking hands; and he cannot scream, the empowering  _Jötunn_ magic wrapping around his throat and squeezing and cutting off all his breaths like the panic of the realization that there is no control, no switch, no _nothing_ -

-until he is mentally spent and can stand no longer, frozen tears on his face when he collapses in a heap upon the ground with the weight of his full-bodied sobs, his shoulders hunched in upon himself as he weeps.

But even then, even with no strength to wield it, the winter cold magic stirs and rises... it builds, builds, _builds_ to arc out of Loki's broken frame and cover his room in ice.


	6. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coronation comes, and the plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, so I found my (admittedly unfinished) notes for this fic, and got seriously back into it. Hi, everyone, it’s been a really long time since the last update. I’m sorry! I sort of got into college, and college sort of took over my life, one major course at a time.
> 
> Let’s hope the next update doesn’t take two years, yeah?
> 
> Side note: My tenses are all over the place. Damn it, grammar. 
> 
> Side note II: I need a beta reader.

_“My son. My darling Loki.”_

_Loki stirs on his bed, his eyes so heavy that he is unable to open them. Murmurs, “Mother?” as he blindly reaches out, but his hands are heavy too; he recognizes the warmth of Frigga’s touch, and relaxes with the knowledge that she is there._

_“Do not hurt so much,” she whispers. “You have known I did not carry you my womb for most your life, but I carry you with pride in my heart.”_

_He cannot understand her meaning and he tells her so, his words seeming garbled and full of silent despair of which cause he cannot remember._

_“You are my son, and you are perfect. You are my perfect son.”_

_“Mother,” he says, but his voice is weak._

_“It is only one more to conceal, my son… you have kept your abilities a secret for so long, and your father and I are so, so proud of you.” She sounds tired, or tearful, as though she might cry. “We are so proud of you. We only want you to be safe. For you both to be safe. Feel no guilt, Loki, my darling. You are forgiven, forgiven for everything.”_

_“Mother, I love you.”_

_Another voice. His father… “Remember, Loki – fear is your enemy. Do not let it touch you and all will be well.” Loki reaches out for him as well but still his limbs betray his will._

_“Father. Father, I have done wrong. I made a mistake.”_

_They do not reply, but Loki can feel his father’s powerful presence beside him and he must not cry. He must be strong._

_“You are not of this realm, but you are no less my son,” Frigga whispers._

_“Keep it a secret,” Odin says._

_“I’m so sorry Father-“_

_“You must keep this a secret. The peace rests upon your shoulders, Loki. Do not disappoint me.”_

_“I will,” Loki spills out, his words tripping over themselves in his eagerness to make the promise. “I will keep this a secret, I will not allow anyone to know I have powers, I will not disappoint you Father I promise-“_

_“You must not let anyone know,” Odin says, but his voice is fading, fading and he is going to lose them both._

_“Father! Mother!”_

_“Stay strong,” Frigga tells him in a whisper, and her voice is faint as well._

_“I love you,” Loki whispers, hot tears prickling from beneath his lids and spilling down the side of his face. Frigga’s hands tighten on his, then begin to fade as though they had never existed._

_“As I love you, my son.”_

 

On the night before the coronation, Thor _should_ be ecstatic. He _should_ be strutting through the tavern with his head held high and speak with his subjects with kingly dignity. He should accept the cheering and the jesting about any wench he might be asked to marry – made to marry, even.

Or perhaps he should be speaking with Freya, listening to any advice his mother’s closest friend has to offer. Perhaps he should be at Loki’s door while his Princehood lasts, while he can throw himself at his brother’s feet and cry, “Can _you_ not choose a queen?”

Instead, Thor sulks over a pint of Asgard’s best ale amongst Sif and the Warriors Three, and he ignores the world.

“I do not understand your misgivings,” Sif says mildly even as her hand sympathetically pats Thor’s shoulder. "You are fond of joining women in their beds, even when you are not supposed to.”

“Besides, she will likely be beautiful,” Volstagg adds through a mouthful of juicy venison. Spittle leaps from his lips as he chews obnoxiously loud, the sound usually assuring to Thor but at this moment in time grating against his nerves. There’s a pause while Volstagg swallows before adding, “And you will never have to fear rejection.”

Sif pins Volstagg with a cold stare. “His queen does not have to submit to him on all things; she will have her own mind, as well,” she says hotly, and Volstagg smartly backs down from the open challenge.

“Nevertheless,” Hogun puts in, “You will learn to love her, and she will love you in return.”

“More than likely she will _want_ to be with you,” Fandral says, his voice muffled from where his face is buried in his arms. Hogun gives him a small frown that he does not see, but Thor notices.

Dismissing Fandral’s glumness for now, Thor shakes his head and drops it into his hands. “Still your tongues,” he says with a groan. “I wish not to speak of her until I must.”

“But you must, mustn’t you?” Sif retorts.

“Not until I must.”

Volstagg chuckles. “This time in a few days we will wish him to still _his_ tongue as he waxes poetry of her great beauty, how her eyes _sparkle_ _thus_ in the light, how her hair is silk between his fingers-“

“Still your tongue,” Thor says grumpily.

“But,” Volstagg continues, “Should you not be delighted? It is your coronation, Thor, you are to be king.”

Thor scowls at his ale.

“Thor,” Hogunn says suddenly. Thor raises his gaze to see his friend staring at a hooded figure standing at the entrance. He feels more than he sees Sif change her position slightly, her hand, he knows, gripping the hilt of her sword lazily, her eye on the door. Volstagg is less subtle, his hand clenched on his great battleax resting against his seat.

Neither Hogunn nor Fandral move; the latter, Thor suspects, mostly wrapped in his thoughts.

The figure reaches up with gloved fingers to push his hood back with what Thor can only describe as grace, and his heart soars when he recognizes the sharp features of his brother then sinking when he realizes that Loki must be looking for someone else.

Loki scans the room, green eyes uncertain, then gives his head a little shake that appears to smooth his features over. Slowly, his brother weaves through the crowds, neatly avoiding the patrons that move past him unknowingly.

“Lo-“

Sif – it must be Sif, for no one reacts to situations the way she does – stomps hard on his foot, causing Thor to wince even as he shuts his mouth. He understands her reasoning, too, for the noisy tavern is no place to bring attention to his shy, reserved little brother. Nevertheless his first smile of the night spreads across his face at the sight of his brother, who has spotted him and is heading over.

“My lord,” Loki greets, focusing his attention wholly upon Thor. At his voice Fandral’s head shoots up and he gawks at Loki like he has never before seen Loki in his life. (Thor notices Hogunn give Fandral a contemplative look but pays it no mind.)

“Brother,” Thor says. “What brings you to the tavern? Not that your face is unwelcome here.”

Loki offers him a half-smile before pulling a smooth, wooden box from under his cloak. “I wished to give you a gift, my lord,” he says formally, “And thought you might be too… inebriated should I choose to find you later this night, or too pained for me to pay you a visit in the morning.” Loki glances down at the box before laying it on the table before Thor. The muscles of his fingers spasm as he does, and Thor doesn’t miss the way Loki tucks his hands carefully back in his cloak. A little bit of sorrow curls like a vine around his heart. _Brother…_

“You could have waited until the coronation,” Fandral says, and this time Thor looks at him, notices how raptly his stare is fixed upon his brother’s face. A slight frown tugs on the edges of his mouth.

“I wished the gift to be personal.” Loki hesitates. “Brother,” he says, eventually, “Perhaps we may speak in private?”

“Yes,” Thor says instantly. He rises to his feet but Loki smiles.

“Take the gift, brother,” he says almost fondly, long fingers pulling the edges of his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

“Thor, are you sure-?” Sif whispers.

Thor gives her a grin as he lifts the heavy box, and re-fixes his gaze upon his brother. “I will return soon, my friends,” he tells them happily. “Come, brother! We will speak in private.”

He leads the way to the private rooms, the crowd thinning as he reaches the stairs. Not too many men and women retreat to the rooms this early in the night, but give them a few hours and soon the inn will be overflowing. Scanning with a practiced eye for one that is not currently in use, Thor notices that his brother now looks quietly unsure of himself now he is out of the public eye.

“I am glad you came here, brother,” Thor tells him as he pushes open the door and gestures Loki in. “It seemed that our friends would do nothing but speak of the woman I must marry.”

“Your friends,” Loki corrects quietly, “And you would do well to acquaint yourself with the idea of marriage.” Thor turns in betrayal to see the impish little smile on Loki’s face, which is mostly cast in shadow. “After all, you will be married soon.”

“Can I not be King alone?” Thor groans.

“It is unorthodox, and you would suffer alone.”

“I do not wish to marry.”

Loki shrugs, his cloak rustling, as such a complaint is not his own. “Open your gift, brother.”

Shaking his head free of the impending doom of marriage, Thor looks down at the simple box. “You have never been so excited to give me a gift,” he says suspiciously. “Does it bite?”

Loki shrugs again, a note of mischief in his voice. “Open it.”

Thor narrows his eyes at his brother but undoes the clasp holding the box shut and lifts the cover, half-expecting some kind of poisonous animal to leap upon him with a roar of rage, or some kind of weapon to fire into his throat.

The gauntlets are a better surprise.

With a single white gem inlaid in the metal of each one, the metal gauntlets gleam in the dim torchlight, beautiful and simple and new. A piece of parchment, folded into four, tucked against the corner of the box, has Thor’s name written upon the top in Loki’s elegant hand.

That is what he reaches for first, but Loki’s gloved hand stops him.

“Read that when you are alone,” Loki tells him. “I… merely wanted to see your expression when you opened your gift.” Loki bows to him, and that feels odd: his brother bowing to _him_. “I should return to my quarters.”

“Will you not stay to celebrate with me?” Thor asks, hoping his voice doesn’t slip too far into pitiful. “It is my coronation and my day of birth.”

Loki hesitates. “Not this night, Thor. It is late, and I am tired. Perhaps another time.”

“Do you promise?”

It comes too quickly for it to be true, but Loki says, “Yes.”

Thor studies him. “I will remember that,” he says as Loki steps past him towards the exit. His brother pauses, then continues without a word, his back straight and his face becoming as blank as stone.

 

His hands shake uncontrollably upon the orb cupped in his hands, no matter how many times Loki attempts to still them with careful breaths, timed to a steady beat in his head. His heart, like his hands, defy his will to remain calm – instead, it races like a trapped bilgesnipe. Waiting in the wings is, in his opinion, not unlike facing off an entire army alone – or so he imagines, anyway. Loki has never seen war but in the words of veterans and court entertainers – _probably for the best,_ he thinks bitterly – but if he had, _this_ , here in the wings now, would be very much like fighting a battle.

Of course, the battle he fights now is between Loki and himself, and it is for the right to flee the scene.

He is not given much choice, in the end; with Thor and a number of guards at his flank, Loki can by no means make a high-tailed escape.

Behind him, Thor is repeating the King’s vows under his breath and – from the sound of it – trying not to fidget with his outfit. Upon their arrival, Loki had been much pleased to see that Thor had relinquished his well-worn gauntlets for the ones Loki had presented him with the night prior. Thor seemed unaware of his little brother’s brief moment of happiness, but he could be excused this day; Loki knew the coronation and the future it implied weighed heavily on Thor’s mind. A queen to rule by his side… by no means is his brother ready for that level of commitment.

Loki’s lips twitch into a small smile when Thor trips over his words and lets out a defeated expletive. “You ought to go over the words slowly,” he says without looking around, focusing on his hands. They still tremble, and – his stomach drops – is he seeing ice glittering around the edges of his fingers?

“Had I the luxury of time, perhaps,” Thor says, and adds in a lower voice what Loki ought to do in turn. Ignoring him, Loki tightens his grip on his orb, hoping to melt the ice under his hands. No such luck favors him.

_Damn it._

A fanfare sounds in the throne room, and is picked up in chorus. Loki lifts his gaze, feeling strangely off balance as the heavy stone doors part to make way for the procession that he leads. A reverent silence assaults him on all sides, the force of which cements his feet to the floor. Rows upon rows of Aesir have congregated to witness Thor’s ascent to the throne, their unique features melding into one shapeless crowd whose collective breath is held in preparation for the ceremony. Heart pounding, Loki gazes wide-eyed at Asgard’s subjects gazing back at him.

A hand touches his elbow, and Loki’s head snaps to the side. “My Prince,” the guard at his flank says quietly, his eyes kind. Loki swallows, tearing his gaze from the guard to take the first step forward.

 

In his youth, Loki often found his own nose buried deep within the pages of a good book while his feet found their own path to a comfortable reading place. Most times the best place existed within his own room – the rug before his fireplace, the window seat with its many cushions, a carefully arranged nest upon his bed – but on the occasion his feet would take him down to the gardens where he could find a good tree to finish his book.

Loki has never considered himself one slow to learn, but to this day he has not been able to avoid that feeling of having his heart leap to his throat when he takes the first step down the stairwell into the gardens. It was as though the ground itself has failed to fulfil its duty and the void below was breathing him in; to Loki now, it is a glimpse of how Thor must have felt as he fell, laughing, through the air.

This walk to the throne is a series of first steps down the stairwell. With every step, Loki feels his heart clambering higher and higher into his throat. Perhaps it will be a permanent fixture there; it is just as well that Loki need not speak through the ceremony. Any words from his lips will have to be translated from strangled gibberish.

Loki fixes his gaze upon the dais, where his parents should be standing – waiting proudly to crown their golden son.

Instead, Heimdall nods almost sympathetically at Loki, sword strapped to his hip. Thor insisted upon Heimdall performing the ceremony in place of their parents, despite the slight protest from the council that Heimdall had a duty to perform. Whatever Thor’s reasoning, Loki feels some relief at his choice. There is something reassuring in Heimdall’s gaze, and Loki’s tension slips a fraction from his shoulders as the orb passes between them. Heimdall’s hands curve around its base. If he notices its temperature, he says nothing.

Quietly relieved that his duty is done, Loki takes his place at the edge of the dais as the remainder of the procession stops before Heimdall, whose gaze fixes both on Thor and on all else. Cape fluttering at his heels, Thor strides towards the dais and kneels at Heimdall’s feet, head bowed low.

“My lord,” Heimdall says in his low rumble. Loki folds his hands behind his back, keeping his eyes on the back wall. “As Crown Prince Regent of Asgard, you have taken on many of the roles that you will further explore, should you choose today to become King. Asgard has not known war since the Battle of Jotunheim – however, our realm only knew peace in the Golden Age brought about by King Odin, your honorable father. As Prince Regent, your efforts to uphold and fulfil all that King Odin has worked for have given many Aesir the peace of mind that leads to your proud moment today. Your parents… would be infinitely proud of your achievements thus far.” Thor lifts his head at those words, and out of the corner of his eye Loki sees a single tear roll down his brother’s cheek. “You have given us all reason to believe in your merciful ruling. Do you, Thor of Asgard, accept thus the mantle of King of Asgard and the Nine Realms?”

There is a pregnant pause, and Loki turns his head minutely to see his brother close his eyes, pride and sorrow equals upon his face. Loki swallows the knot in his throat, his heart swelling with the same emotions battling within Thor.

Thor dips his head low. “I do.”

The sound of applause thunders like the elements controlled by Thor; the guards by the walls begin to pound their spears into the ground, and Loki feels more than he sees the elation rising from the excited crowd. In the cacophony, Heimdall’s whisper is nearly missed.

“We are glad,” Heimdall says, far too softly for anyone but Thor and Loki to hear. Projecting his voice once more, he says over the cheers and whistles of the crowd, “Then rise, King Thor of Asgard, and greet your people.”

 

Celebrations have never been enjoyable to Loki, but this day he steels himself against the multitudes for his brother. The coronation – and his day of birth – belong both to Thor, who sits upon the throne with Mjolnir in one hand and a flask of mead in another. From his own seat at Thor’s side, Loki watches as Thor laughs uproariously at a jest spoken by a drunken lord at one of the tables below.

Shaking his head, Loki sips his own glass of water. _Oaf_ , he thinks fondly. He is somewhat looking forward to the celebrations that take place after the feast; Thor has yet to make a fool of himself, but the night is still young, and the musicians are minutes from taking the stage.

_Speaking of…_

Loki leans over his armrest, clearing his throat to get Thor’s attention. His brother looks over, still grinning like a loon, and raises an eyebrow at Loki’s impish expression.

“The ladies beckon you dance,” Loki murmurs, gaze sliding to where a gaggle of women have gathered, each of them with eyes only for Thor. It is no hardship for Loki that they do not look at him – though, several degrees to their left Fandral has his own eyes on an Odinson, and has kept them there for the majority of the night.

Thor immediately groans. “It is as though they know I must take a wife,” he says grumpily.

“I have not heard you complain about a woman’s affections before,” Loki teases.

“Perhaps you would like to take my place.”

“I would never take this fine opportunity from you,” Loki says feelingly, a grin tugging on his mouth. His gaze follows the musicians as they take their places in the corner of the great hall.

Thor wrinkles his nose, obviously unaware of the announcement for the guests to step onto the dance floor. “Come now, brother,” he cajoles. “I need your help! It is not as though you are hideous; you are quite handsome, and if you would stop acting so cold all the time you might attract the eyes of several dames.”

The warm happiness and pride that previously settled into Loki’s stomach is fleetingly replaced by a sudden chill, and Loki pulls back from his brother. Swiftly, Thor catches Loki’s hand before he can completely close himself away.

“Brother, I did not mean-“

“Think nothing of it,” Loki says stiffly. Thor persists.

“It is simply that… you have an affinity to shut people out – Loki, wait, I did not mean it to sound as such, I simply remember our childhood days, when you and I were inseparable. Loki, do you not recall those times? We used to play together often. And then one day you were… no longer my little brother. You were always busy, and I alone-”

With a hiss, Loki says, “I would not close people out if they were not so easily taken from me, Thor.”

“I lost Mother and Father too,” Thor says hotly. His words are nearly drowned by the laughter of dancing Aesir; Loki looks away from Thor to focus on a couple practically skipping around each other near him. “You were not alone in that, no matter how much you tried to be.”

“And what of Nilda?” Loki demands, head whipping around to face his brother. “What of Fandral? And what of-“ He bites his tongue before he could speak Thor’s name, feeling off-balance and out of place. _They were your choice to leave – Fandral and Thor both. Because you cannot control yourself, like the pathetic child that you are._

“Nilda was old, and needed retiring,” Thor says. “And what does Fandral have to do with this discussion?”

“Nothing,” Loki snaps, irrationally angry at his own lack of control. “Nothing at all.” With some struggle, Loki tugs his hand free from his brother. “I need fresh air.”

“Loki-“

“You have a wife to find,” he snarls before stalking away, knowing that this would hurt Thor enough that he will not follow. There is an odd feeling on the hand Thor was gripping; Loki glances down at it, and lets out a small curse. His oaf of a brother had somehow managed to slip the material from his skin, but Loki would be damned if he went back for his glove now. _Just don’t touch, don’t feel._

His hand trembles.

Loki makes his way off the dais and weaves easily through the crowd; the balcony doors are open, but the area is otherwise occupied by flirting men and enamored women. Loki hesitates, lingering longer than he desires as his gaze flickers over the couples there; his chest caves in without being destroyed, leaving him empty and yearning for someone he could not hurt or drive away.

He slips back into the hall, surrounded but feeling more desolate than before.

“Loki!”

Fandral’s voice is not soft by any means, and Loki winces before he turns to face his brother’s best friend with as guarded an expression as he can manage. “Fandral,” he says warily, taking a half-step back away from the other man. “What service do you require of me now?”

Fandral stops short, eyes flickering over Loki’s face for a minute before he swallows and bows slightly. “My prince,” he says. “I… simply wanted to apologize for my behavior from that night. I acted rashly, and… completely made a fool of myself.”

Loki tilts his head imperiously. “You did.”

“I also wanted… Will you forgive me, my prince, and allow me to apologize further by leading you in a dance?”

“I do not understand how one can interpret that as an apology.”

“Then forgive me for being so bold, but I would enjoy one dance with you.”

Loki exhales sharply, turning his eyes instead over the crowd. “No.” Fandral’s expression drops slightly, but he bows again.

“As you wish, my prince,” he says, but his words are lost in the sudden roar that arises from the room – or perhaps the noise comes instead from Loki’s own head, the product of a pounding heart and a stifling fear that winds itself around Loki’s neck and pulls. At the door stands a small group of Frost Giants, their very presence stilling the merry-making in the hall.

The largest of them straightens, eyes roaming the crowd. Thor’s voice booms: “King Laufey, I am glad you have accepted my invitation.”

“I could not miss the celebrations meant for my liege,” Laufey responds, red eyes fixed upon Asgard’s new King. Thor forces a smile, and opens his mouth to speak.

“Loki!”

Fandral’s voice cuts over Thor’s response, but, running, Loki does not look over his shoulder to see if anyone follows; the roaring has returned, along with the pounding of his heart and a ringing in his ears, but the faster he ran the further away the threat of drowning in the terrible noise seems, leaving him only with the sound of his breaths trying to match the terror that is now the sole source of fuel for functionality. Somewhere behind him, Fandral yells, “Loki!” once more, like saying his name again and again will somehow still his feet and bring him back.

They have come for him. Somehow, the Jötunn have discovered his truth and have come to drag him away for violation of the treaty between their realms, for killing a good man, and for countless other crimes he fears they will charge him with.

“Loki, stop!”

“Get away from me!” he yells. The sound of his feet against the ground changes from boots on stone to boots on magic; the rainbow bridge races by him as he races to its end. Perhaps he can find a way to leave Asgard; they will not be able to follow – if Heimdall will let him go-!

“Loki, please,” Fandral cries, sounding closer than Loki thought. A hand grasps his elbow, and Loki reacts without thinking. “No!”

Immediately, he wants to take it back.

Fandral stares at him, hand still reaching out for Loki, like time has stopped for everyone but hustles Loki along – Loki watches it all happen in a matter of heartbeats, his eyes focused solely on the other man. Fandral’s eyes are wide and his lips are parted in surprise, and his golden skin paler than Loki has ever remembered seeing it; the young warrior looks on the verge of speaking, perhaps of laughing at a sight that has caught his fancy, but he says not a word, and no sound but a single breath leaves his lips.

“No! No, no, _no_!”

From his chest protrudes a single blade of ice, wedged deep but not bleeding; Fandral falls to his knees, eyes sliding all the way shut. And Loki stumbles back from the warrior to the edge of the bridge, from his brother and Hoenir and the small crowd that accompanied them. There are yells; their voices overlap, making no sense, and Loki scrambles to get out of the furious and terrified gazes of one of the guards; the voices make no sense until one stands out – quiet, but somehow more terrible than the screaming.

“Loki, what have you done?” Thor whispers, gazing at the still remains of his shield-brother.

Loki raises his gaze to meet Thor’s horrified eyes, and he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that he cannot stay.

“I’m sorry,” Loki says, pleadingly. He steps back further, and there is nothing under his heel. Thor takes a step towards him. “I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t stop, I’m sorry–“

“Loki, stop!”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t control it I’m sorry–“

“No! _Loki!”_

The ground fails its duty, and the void beneath breathes him in.

Loki falls.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're thinking this fic is going to be Disney happy I'm sorry to burst your bubble but I write dark shit. Sorry. 
> 
> Heartsign, though.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> [ edit ] I did change the summary, how nice of you to notice. <3


End file.
